Hound
by HyperSoft
Summary: Jacinto Maximum Security Penitentiary. The Slab. You spent four goddamn years in there. Four. I know you want me to leave you alone, to act like nothing ever happened. But your scars are screaming otherwise. Goddamn it, Marcus...what did they do to you?
1. 0: Prologue

**Hound  
><strong>

_Do you know where home is? Do you know your name now, hound?_**  
><strong>

**—**

**Disclaimer:** Clearly, I don't own Gears of War or its characters in any shape or form. Everything belongs to Epic Games. Lyrics belong to Scarlett Slipping and Sarah Bettens.

—

The whole idea for this stemmed from a short piece of dialogue from _Jacinto's Remnant_ wherein Anya asks Marcus about his time in prison, but (surprise!) he refuses to open up about what happened, especially his newly acquired scars.

Also, the song "All of This Past" by the talented Sarah Bettens was pretty much my soundtrack for this piece. All the chapter taglyrics belong to that song, and to miss Bettens. Go check it out. Seriously. Weeping will probably ensue.

But basically? This is just my take on Marcus' time in Jacinto's worst prison, the Slab.

**EDIT**: I just wanted to say _**thank you, truly**_, to everyone who's taken the time to read, review, or fave. Hound is finally finished, and your constant response has made this a real ride. Thank you all for your support, and for allowing me to share a bit of my fucked up headcannon with you.

**—  
><strong>

1. As ever, vicious, soul-rending concrit makes me deliriously happy, and is absolutely encouraged.

**2. This story is rated M for graphic violence, language, and extremely unpleasant situations.** I mean, come on; this _is_ the Slab we're talking about. ;)

But that's enough of me talking at you. Here you go:

* * *

><p><strong>0<br>[prologue]**

Marcus.

Why can't you let me in?

Four years. You spent _four goddamn years_ in there. Locked up. Caged like an animal.

Four.

And you act like nothing ever happened. Like you weren't even gone. Like you never left all of us behind. Dom. Me. _Us_.

Everyone who cares about you.

Loves you, even.

I know that that place changed you. Not just your scar count, either. Something inside you got pinched like a nerve, twisted apart. I can see it everywhere; in your shoulders, in your twitching jaw muscles, in the way your hands clench.

But...not in your eyes.

I remember when they were the only thing that betrayed you. You could have a choke hold on everything else, but one look into those blues and, for just a moment, I thought I might have understood.

And now? I look into them, and there's nothing there. Not for me, not for anyone.

_This_ was what kept me awake at night; the very worst of my many nightmares. That you'd finally go into full lock down. Push everything away. Shut me out forever.

_Why?_

What happened in there that forced you to purge everything like this?

God _damn_ it, Marcus, what the hell did they do to you?


	2. 1: The Thirty Eighth Block

**1  
>[<strong>**the thirty-eighth block]**

_Here I go again, slipping further away.  
>Letting go again<br>of what keeps me in place._

The knife glinted in the shards of sickly light that spilled into the cell from beyond the rusted bars. Slowly, Boston curled his calloused fingers and brought the edge of the blade to his thumbnail. He caught an edge, then shaved off the nail's ragged end, giving little thought to the chance of accidentally slicing the sensitive flesh beneath. A crescent of grimy keratin fell to into his lap and lost itself in a fold of his once-orange jumpsuit. He stuck out his thumb and scrutinized his handiwork; deciding he was satisfied with the job, he turned his attention to the next finger.

_Nails are still growing. Not dead yet._

_ Beautiful._

He stared out into the vast, two-storey hall beyond his cell door. The boys were worked up tonight.

Most times, Boston could block out the general din that perpetuated through the cell blocks during the nights, but this evening, he couldn't ignore the thrum of agitation that prickled just beneath the usual snarls and bellowed threats. Even the lead-faced guards were shuffling nervously from foot to foot. Something big was sneaking up on Cell Block 38, and the rising anticipation sparked rapidly through the rusted bars of the countless cells.

Suddenly, there was a loud clatter against the bars next to Boston's ear as a grizzled bone was boomeranged at his head. He flinched: his knife slipped and nicked the tip of his finger.

"God _damn_ it, Cross. What the fuck is your problem?"

There was a throaty chuckle. "How's your manicure coming, Boz?"

Boston shot a glare into the cell two doors down. There, fiddling with another femur, was an ugly bear of a man, a wide grin and sweat plastered over his features. Even with a whole empty cell between them–a rarity in Block 38–Boston couldn't escape the other man's stench.

"Such a temper," Cross continued, his hideous smirk never fading. "It'll get you into trouble one of these days."

Boston ducked to avoid the second bone as it whizzed between cells. Cross had recently taken to pelting Boston with all manner of scavenged objects, and while the casual threats had gotten old months ago, Boston couldn't help to curl his lip back at his blockmate. Cross just snorted, pig-like, at the crack in Boston's typically aloof air. For a moment, Boston toyed with the thought of hurling back a similar retort. Or, even better, the knife in his hand...

_Don't be a fucking idiot_. The man winced the idea away. Start a fight with Cross, and he'd be swallowing teeth in no time.

The electric air in Block 38 was getting to Boston, he decided. Worming into his blood. Making him want to punch somebody. Hard. Judging by the rising level of anxious noise that ricocheted around the Block, all the others were feeling the same way. But above the din of restless criminals, one sound rose up, and it iced Boston's veins.

It was the barking of dogs; someone was coming to give Block 38 a visit.

He'd barely completed the grim thought before the Block erupted in raucous bellows and hoots. Over the vulgar cacophony, Boston heard the metallic creak and slam as the Block's security doors were bypassed. The baying of the guard dogs added to the painful noise levels, which usually meant one thing: a new prisoner.

And a very well-known one, Boston guessed. That was the only explanation for the Block's rabid welcome. Judging by volume alone, it was probably some infamous criminal; a rapist, or maybe even a serial murderer. Men like that might have been internally punished in other prisons, but not here. In here, such charges were worn like Embry Stars: badges of brutal power and dominance.

As the new prisoner was being escorted down the long hall that was Block 38, the roars followed; then Boston realized that they weren't praising at all. The inmates were _jeering_ at the new kid on the Block.

"Fucking _pig_!"

"Fascist dog, where's your code of honour now?"

"We'll fix you up, asshole. Just you wait!"

"This is where all you Gears belong!"

Boston's brow twitched skyward. A Gear. A goddamn _soldier_. Well, fuck. That more than explained the acidic welcome; Gears didn't do very well here. He snorted.

_This is a huge frigging deal. He must have fucked _right_ up. But where the hell are they going to put him_—

_ Oh shit. Roskar's old cell._

The man leaned back in his chain-suspended cot, dark eyes staring past the blackened bars and into the cell between him and Cross: the former abode of one Roskar Viyaska. The cell was empty–had been ever since Roskar got himself slaughtered.

_Damn. They're filling up quick again. I don't even think the bloodstains are dry yet..._

Sure as shit, they were going to throw this soldier bastard into Roskar's old cell. Right beside Boston.

_Just when I had some peace and quiet_.

The barking and yelling was nearly on top of him. Boston was quick to slip his smuggled knife behind his back; just when his ears began to ring, five dark figures with three leashed and muzzled beasts strode past his own barred door and halted at Roskar's. One was the infamous and pudgy-faced Jailor, three were common guards, and the last was the new prisoner: handcuffed, blindfolded and gagged.

"Shut up! Alla ya!"

The Jailor's orders were easily lost in the sea of mocking roars. Boston watched as the scowling man yanked a Boltok pistol from his belt and aimed at random.

"I said, SHUT _UP_!"

Three gunshots exploded into the hall. Like a rabid animal beaten momentarily out of its madness, the orange-jumpsuited hoard that was Block 38 fell quiet; even the lean, crazed guard dogs held their slimy tongues for a few seconds.

"That's more like it. Goddamn pack of yappin' mutts...the dogs too."

The Jailor jammed his Boltok back into its holster and glared evenly at the cells around him. The prisoners might have been menaced into temporary silence, but they still pressed hungrily up against the iron limits of their cages, arms and wild-eyed expressions oozing out into the hall beyond. Their heavy breathing was a lukewarm wind within the Block.

Except for the ones whose cells were close to the dogs; those men kept their distance from the bars, making sure to keep their throats out of easy lunging range.

The hounds were always more terrifying than the guards that handled them. _Always_. Something about them triggered a deep, primal fear that mere men simply couldn't invoke. From the dark of his bunk, Boston could see the monsters breathe, their mangy black coats rippling over tight muscles as they thrashed against their heavy, sharp-pronged collars. The yellowish foam from their mouths bubbled out through the steel mesh of their muzzles, and they all watched the new prisoner with rolling white eyes.

Suddenly, one of the larger ones snapped viciously at the prisoner's thigh, triggering the other dogs to spiral into a barking frenzy. The guard holding the big bastard mutt jerked it up by the leash, pulling its front claws up off the grated floor. He reeled back a broad hand and thwacked the hollow of his animal's neck, then turned to give the new inmate an impatient push.

"Come on, the damn dogs are losing it! Where the hell do you want him already?"

The Jailor anchored a quiet glare on the guard from the corner of his eye. "Watch yer tongue, or I'll tear it out and feed it to that flea-bag o' yers for a midnight snack."

The guard gave a reactionary snarl, but kept his mouth pointedly shut and his dog on shorter leash. Sniffing loudly, the Jailor jerked his head at Roskar's cell. "The warden's out for th' night; we'll just throw this asshole in 'ere fer now. Cell 1001."

The Jailor then smiled, slowly, as if suddenly remembering something interesting.

"Well,_ what do ya know_, Boz? That's right beside ya, isn't it, ol' boy?"

Boston wedged himself even further back into his cot. From behind the bars, he could just make out the Jailor giving him a yellowed sneer.

"Be nice to 'im, Bozzy," came the Jailor's phlegm-slicked voice. "Don't want yer new best friend to end up like poor old Roskar, now do ya?"

Cross's bulky form emerged from the shadows of his cell. "Don't you worry, we'll take _very_ good care of him."

"Hah! Of course ya will, Cross. 'Cause we all know how well you and yer boys play with others..."

The Jailor dragged a ringful of keys from one of his pockets; Boston watched, eyes narrowed, as the repulsive man ambled over to Roskar's cell.

There was a metallic cacophony of clatters as the mess of locks and deadbolts on the door was painstakingly opened. Finally, a dull clack echoed through the hall when the last tumbler fell into place, and the stalwart door creaked open.

Unlike most of the other cons, Boston didn't bother himself with torturing newbies. But something about this evidently well-known asshole from the army–a frigging _Gear_–had piqued his interest. Gears were rare here, but when they did crop up, it was always a treat to witness their morals and ethics and codes decay as they became the societal monsters they tried so valiantly to resist.

They all broke in the end; this one would be no different.

The handful of guards shuffled around; the Jailor joined them. There was a quiet click as handcuffs were unlocked, and then the prisoner, already decked out in the standard issue orange jumpsuit, was thrust roughly into the adjacent cell. Boston could smell his sweat.

"This is yer new home, asshole," laughed the Jailor, swaggering into the doorway. "Three hots and a cot: not bad, eh?"

Boston glanced at the new prisoner; the Jailor had yet to remove the blindfold or the gag. Boston could hear his blockmates stalking within their cells, eyes glinting maliciously as they sized up their prey. The Jailor must have sensed the lurking prisoners' hunger too, because he turned to face the rows of cells that ran up and down the hall.

"I'm guessin' by that rousin' welcome that we're already familiar with our latest addition!"

There was almost no response from the skulking pack, but Boston felt the old electricity of anticipation rising again. The guards shifted uncomfortably, and their dogs' growling doubled.

The Jailor only smirked.

"Marcus fuckin' Fenix."

He drew it out slowly, letting the landmine of a name slide over his tongue like a trickle of greasy oil. Boston tilted his chin at the new prisoner as the hall filled up with a second, equally-deafening wave of jeering shouts and laughter.

Fenix. As in war hero of Aspho Fields, _hey-look-at-all-my-shiny-medals _Fenix. This guy was supposed to be the golden child of the COG, wealthy and celebrated. Somewhere in the back of Boston's brain, he recalled something about this man's court martial: dereliction of duty during some big important battle, if memory served. Compared to what most of the inmates were in for, a crime like that seemed like child's play.

Yes, even in the iron walls of the Slab, they'd heard about Fenix's trial, how he'd abandoned his men in their hour of need. According to the papers, the entire Jacinto Plateau had been compromised because of this dumb fuck. "Bad rap" was a supreme understatement.

Boston grinned; every fist they slammed into Fenix's shit-eating face would feel practically _sanctified_.

The Jailor coughed violently, then spat. "Thought yer big hero name was gonna save ya, Fenix? Nah. Yer nothin' here. Ya don't even _have_ a name anymore. From now on, yer known as..." The Jailor stepped forward and ripped the blindfold and gag from Fenix's face.

"Prisoner _098356-GX_. Got that?"

Fenix glared at his captor, but said nothing. Distantly, Boston was impressed that the newcomer hadn't just pissed his pants already. The Jailor, however, was not.

"Aw, is the poor little army puke too scared to shoot his ugly mouth off?"

"Fuck you."

Boston could hear the scummy smirk in the fat Jailor's guffaw of laughter. "What do ya know, that's our motto here! See? Yer practically family already!"

The prisoner's head jerked as though the Jailor's words had caught him right in the jaw. Clearly eager to be done with all the pleasantries, the Jailor snorted and spat again.

"Hah. I've got nothin' more to say to ya, GX," he rasped. "Welcome to the Slab, fucker."

And then the door slammed close. Out in the hall, the Jailor screamed for the prisoners to get their asses back in their cots, and the guards made their exit, the baying of their dogs fading out to nothing.

_Fenix, Fenix, Fenix._

Boston watched the former Gear as he took in his bleak surroundings. He was a pretty big guy–then again, _everyone_ here was a pretty big guy. But this one wasn't quite like the others: he carried himself differently. He sank down onto the cot and buried his face in his hands.

Boston couldn't help but smile. He cleared his throat quietly, just loud enough to hear in the adjacent cell.

"Don't mind the blood."

Fenix pulled his head out of his hands to stare at Boston; his eyes were a pale, disturbing sort of blue. Having got his attention, Boston gestured to the copious bloodstains splattered thickly across the walls and floor of Fenix's cell.

"It's Roskar's," Boston explained. Fenix's stare never wavered; when it was clear that he wasn't going to take the bait, Boston winked and gestured vaguely towards the top of the cell.

Boston watched as Fenix's eyes snapped skyward, then locked on the blood-soaked, mangled expanse of human skin that had been stretched over the pipes that lined the cell's ceiling.

"What...the _fuck_..."

"I wouldn't let him bleed on me, if I were you. He's been up for a couple days now..."

"...Did you _do_ to him?" Fenix finished, his voice hardly a whisper.

Unexpectedly, Boston found himself hesitating at the question; he heard Cross laugh cruelly, knowingly, from the cell two doors down. But the moment passed, and he recovered quickly.

"Thanks, but we really can't rightly take credit. If we want to kill ya, we'll catch you in the Yard. Less messy that way." Boston shook his head. "No. This is...Glasgow's handiwork."

"Glasgow."

"Hah! You mean you didn't get the 'official' introduction? Lucky you. Glasgow is the Slab's head warden."

Fenix was still just staring. "The head warden did this," he repeated blankly. "The _head warden_."

Boston laughed. "Roskar crossed Glasgow. Got caught trying to steal some keys right out of the old bastard's back pocket." Boston lowered his voice for theatrical effect. "And Glasgow put him straight; sicked his personal guard dog on him. We all knew he was off his meds, but even then, it was some fairly sick shit. Hell, _I_ was covered in blood by the end—"

"Enough."

Boston squinted at Fenix through the darkness. The huge man was still crammed into his metal bunk, thick arms crossed and eyes closed. His face was weirdly calm.

A thin chuckle emanated once again from the cell opposite Fenix.

Moments later, Cross' laughter was echoing all around them, and Boston realized that many of the other convicts were still very much awake.

"We heard you ran away."

Fenix snapped up. Cross had his resumed his typical stance, bulging arms draped casually around the bars of the far cell. Now that he had Fenix's attention, he flashed him a smile filled up with long, unclean teeth.

"Fucking turned tail and _ran_. That's why you're here, right? A _life sentence _for dereliction of duty. During a pretty damn important battle, too, or so I hear..." Cross grinned. "Oh yes, we all heard the story. Even in here. Right smack in the middle of that clusterfuck up in Ephyra, and you just abandoned your whole squad. Pretty _low_, if you ask me."

If Cross' words were scraping nerves, Fenix didn't let it show, choosing instead to merely inspect his mildly bruised knuckles. Boston was almost disappointed...

"Sure, go ahead: feel free to chat about it," the ex-soldier spoke suddenly. "But if you do, at least try to get the facts straight."

His voice wasn't angry, or even particularly invested. Just really frigging _tired_.

At this, Cross pushed out his bottom lip in an ugly mock-pout. "Oh yeah, that's right. You had to go save your _daddy_, didn't you?"

Eyes cast down at his hands, Boston waited for a scathing response, but the only sound was the breathing of the countless prisoners, hanging onto Cross's every word.

"But you couldn't even do that right, could you?"

Fenix kept an even glare locked on the man, motionless apart from a single muscle in his jaw, working madly back and forth.

"No...I couldn't."

So, the rumours were true after all, Boston thought to himself. Fenix really had failed to save his father. How tragic. Cross' voice snaked out of the darkness one last time.

"Another weak coward. Just what this place needs."

Cross pulled back from the bars, and the crushing presence of the other inmates followed suit, melting back into the blackness. It was over, Boston knew: their work was done.

At least for tonight.

Recoiling fully into his bunk, he shifted around a bit, searching for a comfy place that didn't exist, then finally closed his eyes for a few frayed minutes of pseudo-sleep.

"Forty years."

Boston opened a single eye. He waited a few moments, but nothing more came from Fenix. He threw a sidelong glance at the new prisoner.

"It's not a life sentence," Fenix explained quietly–to no one in particular, Boston suspected. "It's forty years."

At this, Boston let a barking staccato laugh escape from his thin lips. Once again, the laughter was mimicked by the horde of prisoners that were _still_ listening in. Boston grinned at their relentlessness.

"Don't kid yourself, GX," he said, settling back down into his cot. "In here, that's thirty-nine years_ longer _than a life sentence."


	3. 2: Ruiner

**2  
>[ruiner]<strong>

_I like it here,  
>but it scares me to death.<br>There is nothing here._

There were no lights in the long, narrow room; the only illumination came from the rows upon rows of televisions that smothered the main wall like a honeycomb. Their fishbowl screens flickered spastically, each one displaying the black and white image of a different area within the extensive prison compound. A sparse handful of grey-uniformed men, each perched rigidly in their computer chairs, were scanning the array of surveillance televisions with weary, sun-starved eyes. Every minute or so, they would lift a stiff hand to press some combination of buttons on the complicated control panel before them, and one of the screens would blip soundlessly from one image to another. From the gate lodge, to the currently empty recreation Yard, to the mess hall, to individual cells; nothing escaped the prying eyes of the Slab security cameras.

Slipping the lighter back into the fold of his lightly armoured jacket, Glasgow raised his cigarette to his perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth and took a long, smooth draw. He kept a steady gaze locked on the wall of televisions in front of him, playing with the smoke in his mouth.

"Sir? Was there...something you wanted?"

Glasgow's eyes flicked over the younger man–one of the watchmen–staring up at him from one of the chairs. The staff member's eyes were trained directly on Glasgow's; never straying, even for a moment, to the two scars that ran from each corner of the warden's mouth almost to his ears. _Never_ there. Knowingly, Glasgow smiled, and observed as the watchman strained, desperate to keep from glancing at the way Glasgow's muscles pulled and twitched under the ragged scars.

The warden wondered distantly which unnerved his underlings more; his permanently carved grin, or the rumours of his special "correctional methods." He took another drag on his cigarette.

_Or maybe_, he meandered, it was dear Bethsheva that really got their little hearts pumping.

He glanced down, then smiled approvingly at his lovely black hound. She was rooted to his heels, ears perked and sharp snout straight ahead. Ironically, the bitch was utterly blind, but she still locked her glassy white eyes on each of the watchmen whenever they spoke or coughed. Through the leather straps of her muzzle, the warden could see her tongue occasionally slip over still-bloody teeth. He knew she was waiting patiently for the signal, the snap of fingers that would release her to leap up and lock her gorgeous, powerful jaws around—

"...Sir?"

Pensively, the warden blew the smoke through his nose, exhaling just hard enough to sting the younger man's eyes. The watchman choked and coughed, blinking rapidly, but never daring to complain.

Glasgow sniffed. "It appears that a new prisoner was booked into Block 38 last week without my knowledge. You understand that I cannot have inmates coming and going without my supervision, Mr. Manells. Do you know where in 38 he's currently being detained?"

Manells nodded shortly and turned to the control board, chewing his lip slightly. "The only cell filled in Block 38 last week was...cell 1001, looks like."

"Ah yes. Roskar Viyaska's old cell, if I'm not mistaken." Glasgow said, leaning forward on the board as he sucked thoughtfully on his cigarette. "Let's have a look at the surveillance cameras, hm?"

The control panel flashed as the watchman's fingers danced over the various buttons. His gaze rose to the televisions, and he gestured to one that had blipped to the grayscale image of a small, square cell. Within those four iron corners, there was a man curled up in the cot. Glasgow cocked his head.

"Strange that the Jailor didn't think it pertinent to contact me before assigning this man a cell. What prisoner is this?"

Manells pressed a few keys, and an identification number flashed up on the screen: 098356-GX.

"Uh, it looks like it's prisoner 098—"

"_That means nothing, Manells_. Give me a _name_, please."

There were a few frantic moments as the watchman scrambled to punch more buttons–his lip-chewing was getting worse. A moment later, Glasgow watched as the identification number was replaced by a recognizable name.

Too recognizable, Glasgow realized with a twitch of his brow.

Manells quirked his head like he'd just read some obscure and interesting fact. "Marcus _Fenix_. Huh. No way."

The surveillance room went deathly still; Glasgow began to roll his cigarette forcefully between his fingers. Instantly, Bethsheva's low growl saturated the suddenly claustrophobic room, and Manells looked like he was going to gnaw right through his lip.

The glances of the other watchmen were ripped from their respective screens as a muffled shriek shattered the silence.

"I have _Marcus Fenix_ in my prison?" Glasgow asked calmly, pressing the red-hot end of his cigarette deeper into the corner of Manells' eye.

"Y-yes!" Manells wailed.

"For six whole days, I've had Marcus Fenix in my prison, and _no one_ thought for a _second_ to inform me of this?"

Manells just screamed and clawed at the hands that held his head steady. Glasgow made a quaint, disappointed clicking sound and heaved the thrashing staff member into the control panel. Bethsheva danced eagerly on her haunches, muscles visibly straining, but her signal had not been given, and the animal never budged.

The warden turned to the watchman sitting beside Manells; the whites of his eyes gleamed with horror. "You. Could you _kindly_ inform me of how long Fenix will be in our care?"

The second watchman wasted no time in attacking the keyboard, and a wall of cryptic information raced across his own screen.

"I-it's a forty-year sentence, sir. For treason and dereliction of duty."

White flashed unbidden through Glasgow's vision. For the barest of seconds, his hand curled into a fist, tight and volatile. Bethsheva's hackles rose, and the air crackled with danger once again. Instinctively, the warden groped around his jacket pocket, snatched out a tube of white pills, and swallowed a tiny handful. His pale face instantly slackened, and he permitted a deep breath to flow through his lungs.

"I see. Now tell me: is cell 1002 still occupied?"

"I...yes, sir. It seems it is." More keys were hammered, and another number flashed on-screen. "Prisoner 041509-JV."

Glasgow turned the digits over in his mind, their rhythm bouncing familiarly in his memory. He smiled. _So Boston's managed to stay alive so far, has he? Good for him_.

"Excellent, thank you." The warden glanced over his shoulder. "And how much longer until we wake our boys up for breakfast, Manells?"

Manells–crumpled into a pathetic heap on the floor now–just pawed at his blistering eye and whimpered. Another watchman glanced nervously down at the digital watch on his thin wrist.

"About twenty minutes, sir."

Stuffing the tube of pills back into his coat, Glasgow nodded and lit another cigarette.

"Excellent. Now, someone take Manells to the hospital, please. The lady and I need to pay Block 38 a short visit."


	4. 3: Wolftrap

**3  
>[wolftrap]<strong>

_I find comfort here  
>'cause I know what is lost.<em>

Fenix was having another damn nightmare.

Boston glared at the ceiling of his cell like he was willing it to burst into flames. He couldn't see Fenix, but he could hear the creaking of his cot as he tossed fitfully, and the low, sleep-muddled groans were impossible to shut out.

"...Wait...mm...Dad, no..."

Over a week, and it was still as bad as the night they'd first thrown the asshole in here. Sure, there was no shortage of disturbing noises that emanated through the two-storey prison block during the so-called "quiet hours", but this was worse somehow. Something about the way the ex-soldier whined about his daddy pissed everyone off more than usual.

"Is that GX crying again?" A voice cut through the darkness from somewhere down the hall. "Oh, for the love of–someone shut him up!"

"Yeah, Boston!" someone on the first level hissed. "Deal with that asshole already!"

Boston heaved up onto his elbows. "_You_ deal with him!" he spat back. "I'm not his fucking wetnurse."

In the adjacent cell, Fenix snorted, then heaved a tortured, moaning sigh.

"No...get out...rrrgh..."

"Boz, I swear to God, if you don't get that Gear to zip it in the next thirty seconds, I'm going to skullfuck the both of you. I mean it."

_Ah, shit_. That sounded a lot like Raxis, one of Cross' bully friends. The Islander didn't speak up very often, but when he did, he meant business. Boston's old cowardice reared its head, and he flipped over in his cot to anchor a weary scowl on the roiling man in the cell next to him.

"Hey, GX. _Fuckstick_. Wake up."

Fenix's face was buried in his arms; he barely flinched.

"Hn...agh...Car...Carlos..."

That one was new; the bastard seemed to be only slipping deeper into his nightmares. Giving a little growl of frustration, Boston hoisted himself out of his cot and pulled up close to the bars that separated him from the ex-soldier. He then stuck his boot through the bars, lined it up with Fenix's head, and delivered a good, solid prod.

Fenix bolted up in his cot and, in spite of the fact that he was still half-asleep, his hand shot out and nearly caught Boston's foot before he could retract it safely back into his own cell. The ex-soldier gave a groggy grunt and rubbed his neck like it was sore.

"_Goddammit_. What the fuck was that?"

"_Happy, Raxis!_" Boston yelled out to the hall, then turned to Fenix. "You're keeping everyone up with your crying again," he muttered. "Whimpering like a goddamn bitch in heat, I swear..."

Out of sheer habit, he waited for the scathing comeback, but none came. Of course, Fenix wasn't like the others; he didn't lash out when provoked, never snapped or took the bait the other prisoners always laid out for him. Hell, he didn't even throw his muscle around, though that was probably a good thing, seeing as he had some considerable muscle to throw.

No, he just let the comment slide off his hunched back, sighing gruffly and pinching the bridge of his nose.

It was then that Boston saw that Fenix was sporting a painful-looking black eye.

"Wow, who did _you_ piss off?"

To no one's surprise, Fenix acted like he hadn't heard and simply began pulling on his boots.

"Come on, shiners are a dime-a-dozen in here. I promise I won't tell Cross you let someone sock you..."

At this, a sharp _psst_ came out from the darkness of the cell on the other side of Boston. Twisting around, Boston saw that the thin little man who occupied the neighbouring cell had latched onto the bars like some kind of flesh-and-bones leech. He was a quiet one; Boston couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen the lanky bastard creep out of his cot. What did everyone call him again? _Fangsey?_ _Yeah, that's it. Fangsey_.

"Don't have to tell Cross. He knows," the other con whispered, eyes bugged out. "He knows, 'cause he's the one what done it. I saw it meself."

Boston leaned over in his cot; he was doing his best to hide his amusement. "Do go on."

"Don't know 'zactly what went down. We was all in the Yard, an' Cross just didn't like the look on GX's face or somethin', 'cause then there was this _crash_!" Fangsey slapped his spidery hands against the metal bars to demonstrate his point. "Ol' GX over there was all slammed up on the wall, an' Cross were just stompin' away and glarin' daggers at everybody."

Boston raised his brow at the gangly man, then glanced over into Cross' cell on the other side of Fenix. He was about to ask for confirmation from Cross himself, but stopped himself short as he realized that the convict in question wasn't there.

"Took 'im away."

Boston jerked back to face Fangsey, eyes narrowed.

"Away _where_?"

In the Slab, there were a lot of places that 'away' could be, none of them pleasant. The man sucked in his hollowed cheeks. "Chem shock, I'm thinkin'."

Instantly understanding, Boston nodded, but he couldn't quite suppress the shiver.

_Chem shock: _chemical shock therapy. It felt exactly like it sounded, and even the Slab's toughest bastards were more than a little shaken afterwards. And that didn't even include the mental wounds that persisted. Chem shock wasn't _punishment_ so much as the Slab's patented exercise in agony, cruelty, and severe human rights violations. If you asked a government official, they would call it "experimental medical research in behaviour modification". But If you asked a prisoner, his eyes would deaden, and he would just call it hell on Sera.

Selection for shock sessions was usually random–of course, you were more likely to get chosen if you were a regular pain in the ass, or if one of the guards had it out for you. Boston had the good fortune to have only been through it twice himself, and he _still_ got the twitches every once in a while.

But for now, Boston was pleased at finally having a grasp on the latest developments, and he threw a smile over his shoulder. "Well, GX, looks like the Chem Shock Karma Police exacted your revenge for you."

Before Fenix could respond, an agonizingly loud buzzer tore through Block 38, and Boston sighed. The lights all snapped on as a gravel-filled voice began to sing over the PA system.

"_Wakey wakey, bleed and breaky. You maggots know the drill._"

Without exchanging glances, Boston, Fenix, and several hundred other prisoners all

clambered out of their comfortless cots and lumbered to the back walls of their cells. Nose to the iron, feet shoulder-width apart, and hands crossed behind their heads, they waited as the familiar barking of guard dogs filled the Block.

The doors to the guard quarters opened, the hounds scrambled in in on their short leashes, and the guards positioned themselves at the entrances to each cell. The clicks of the opening locks echoed over the cement, and it wasn't long before Boston heard the clang of steel-capped boots on grate as a guard entered his cell. He'd been through this tedious–and often abusive–morning routine more times than he cared to recall: every prisoner was cuffed by a guard, and then they were all herded down into the meal hall for their sparse breakfast.

Numbly, Boston waited to be dragged out into the hall with the others. But the firm hand on his wrist never moved, and he remained motionless with his face against the wall. Moments passed, and Boston could hear the other prisoners shuffling out down the hall; his initial confusion turned to alarm.

It wasn't until he heard the low growling that he understood just how bad his day was going to be.

"Good morning, Boston."

The flinch was impossible to control. Instantly, he matched the voice up to a face–a horrible, scar-smile face–and the apprehension in his empty stomach knotted up into pure dread. Fuelled by his palpable fear, the growling kicked up a tiny notch.

_God, no._

"...Hello, Glasgow."

Boston felt a snort of laughter against his neck. "Ah, you know my voice. Cute."

"Actually, it was your bitch's lovely voice I recognized." It was the truth: nowadays, Boston could identify Bethsheva's growl from a mile away. Most of the older cons here could.

"So, I see you've managed to keep yourself out of trouble. Good boy."

His face was pushed up against the coldness of the wall, but Boston still managed to keep his voice relatively even. "You know me. I'm crafty."

"Oh, don't I. I might even go so far to say that your so-called _craftiness_ is the only thing that's kept your skin on you all these years."

Glasgow must have slackened Bethsheva's leash, because there was the clicking of nails on metal, and then the huge, ugly beast was right under him. Her neck, ragged with scars from her pronged collar, was nearly level with his groin, and he could feel her hot breath on the inside of his thigh as she nosed about blindly. The other inmates were long since gone, Boston knew, already marching towards their breakfast. He wondered if a scream would even be loud enough to reach the faraway mess hall...

"In fact," the warden continued. "It's your clever mind that I'm hoping to take advantage of today."

"Oh yeah? In regards to what?"

"Your new friend."

Boston bit his lip. "...The Gear."

"Yes. Or _GX_, as you all so affectionately call him."

"So what, then?" Boston said irritably. "What do you want with him?"

"What I always want with the _strong_ ones, Boston."

The warden paused for the barest second.

"To break him."

With this, Glasgow released his vice-grip on Boston's wrists; the convict was quick to plaster his vulnerable back to the cell wall and face his warden–and his warden's damn pet. He saw where this was going; he saw the glint in Glasgow's eyes, heard the tone in his slick voice.

"I just like to ensure my prison is a level playing field. It's better that way, don't you think? Gives the shadowy weasels like yourself a fighting chance."

"No," Boston breathed. His eyes dropped to the floor, but then he found himself staring down at a mouthful of bloody gums and razor-sharp fangs, so he just closed them. "No. Whatever fucked up scheme you're planning, keep me out of it."

"Don't be such a disappointment." The warden cocked his head to the side. "You were so enthusiastic about this with the others."

"That was before. Maybe I've had a moral epiphany since then."

"In two weeks? Dear Boston, we both know you lack the depth of character for such things." Glasgow crossed his arms and winked. "Who knows, I might even be able to keep you out of the chem shock labs again."

_Damn_. The offer was wildly tempting, but Boston knew he couldn't break down now. As nice as favours like that were, this was the Slab, and there was a price. There was _always_ a price.

"I don't care._ I'm not getting involved again_. Do your own dirty wor—"

The words were hardly formed before Boston felt Glasgow's fist deep in his stomach, the force of it mashing his organs into his spine and his spine into the cement wall. Hugging his abdomen, he rasped once, then slid soundlessly to the floor.

"You don't _have_ a choice, Boston." Glasgow's voice floated gently down to the prisoner. "You didn't before, and you certainly don't now."

Pain and rage curled Boston's lip back; hatred seethed wordlessly through his bared teeth, and Bethsheva, sightless eyes just inches from his face, growled right back. Glasgow didn't seem to mind the exchange, though. Clearing his throat, he reached into a pocket and produced a small white rectangle.

"Based on what I've heard, he won't be cracked as easily as the others. We'll have to take a different approach than before. More...psychological. Now, this," he said airily, peering down his sharp nose at the rectangle, "Is a letter addressed to Marcus Fenix. Arrived just a few minutes ago, would you believe."

"What...the hell," Boston choked out between pained coughs, "Do you want me...to do with _that_?"

Flashing a pearly smile that almost came off as genuine, Glasgow _tsk_ed disapprovingly. "Come now, you know exactly what to do. Make him _suffer_."

"How am I supposed to—"

"Please don't be dim, Boston. You're 'crafty', remember? Read it out loud to your fellow prisoners. Taunt him with it. _Give him paper cuts between the fingers with it while he sleeps._ I don't care, just as long as we get the proverbial ball rolling. I'm _positive_ you can think of _something_."

The letter, encased in a crisp envelope, fluttered down into Boston's lap.

"Besides, you were oh _so_ imaginative with Roskar, weren't you?"

Boston's head snapped up, but the will to snarl had evaporated in an instant.

"Who knows, if you run out of ideas, perhaps you can draw upon those previous..._methods_...for inspiration. If I recall, they were rather effective. And you're just so handy with that little blade you managed to sneak in here."

Glasgow just laughed at the prisoner's empty eyes, eternally pleased by his ability to strike the sweetest nerves. Stepping nimbly back, the warden patted his thigh to recall Bethsheva to his side, then gestured to the cell door.

"Shall we?"

Boston's gaze fell from the warden to the envelope resting in his lap. His eyes scanned the stencil-like typeface that adorned the face:

_PROPERTY OF JACINTO MAXIMUM SECURITY PENITENTIARY  
>Contents: ONE (1) LETTER, PERSONAL<br>Recipient: PR. __098356-GX _—_ FENIX, M.  
>Deliver to: CELL 1001, BLOCK 38<br>Sender: STROUD, A.  
>Relationship to Recipient: [UNSPECIFIED]<em>

There was a big red _approved_ stamp over the words; unsurprisingly, Boston didn't recognize the sender's name.

"Yeah," he said huskily, stuffing the letter up his orange sleeve. "I'm fucking starving."


	5. 4: Blood Sugar

**4  
>[blood sugar]<strong>

_Hope is always fear  
>for the the pain it may cost.<em>

Boston always forgot just how dark and miserable the cellblocks were until he emerged, blinking furiously, into the light-flooded mess hall: the cavernous room where the Slab's prisoners sat down in long, identical tables to receive their three hots a day.

It took several painful seconds for Boston's dilated pupils to shrink down, but Glasgow wasted no time in shoving him blindly across the threshold. As he escorted Boston past the countless tables, the other prisoners looked up from their meagre breakfasts to stare at Boston and his infamous escorts. Some were looks of pity, others of snarling amusement; either way, everyone knew something was up. Boston ignored them, choosing instead to gaze up at the series of barred balconies that loomed over the expansive hall, each harbouring several armed guards.

Their eyes were hidden behind their black bulletproof visors, but Boston knew that each one was leering down at the prisoners as they gorged themselves at the sprawling white tables. Some guards even had their firearms aimed loosely at a few of the convicts that had reputations as short fuses. Boston's eyes raked the rows of men sitting at the tables, but he couldn't see Cross.

_Shit, they've still got him in chem shock. Poor fucker is gonna be twitching for weeks._

He was usually pretty tolerant of the starvation aspect of life in the Slab, but as much as he hated to admit it, his stomach had been twisting itself into hungry little knots ever since late last night. Or maybe that was just the punch to the gut talking...

At last, Glasgow brought Boston to a halt before Table 38. Unlike the others, the men of Block 38 never looked up from their plates; eye contact with Glasgow at such a short distance was dangerous.

In fact, the only prisoner that even acknowledged the approaching pair's presence was the damn ex-soldier. He spared a scant moment to steal a glance at the approaching party from the corner of his black eye; his wary gaze darted from Boston, to Bethsheva, to Glasgow, back to Bethsheva, then returned his focus to his barely-touched breakfast.

Glasgow shoved Boston down beside Fenix. There was a muffled click, and then the prisoner's aching wrists were free at last. Without a word, the warden merely clapped a chummy hand over Boston's shoulder, and then he was away sauntering down the space between tables, his huge hound right on his heel. Boston risked a sidelong glimpse at the ex-soldier sitting to his left_; _Fenix just forked a greasy shred of over-cooked meat past his teeth.

"That's a big fucking dog," he mumbled after he'd forced the mouthful down.

"Bethsheva. Blind as a bat, but damned if she can't smell you from a mile away."

"...She's the one that killed Roskar, isn't she?"

"What? I...Uh. Yeah. Why? Big scary dogs make you want to piss your pants or something?"

At that, Fenix just did a slow head turn and fixed a tired glare on Boston, as if to ask him if this was _really_ how he wanted to start his day. It took only a few minutes of being under those blue spotlights for Boston to realize that it wasn't; he stretched his arms slightly and searched for a conversational out.

As he pulled his arms out behind him, he felt the silent crinkle of paper between his skin and jumpsuit. _You know exactly what you're supposed to talk about, Boston_.

"So..." Boston ran his finger over the edge of the table before him. Shit, was he really going to go through with this? Was he going to let Glasgow win so easily?

"Don't suppose the name _A. Stroud_ rings a bell, hm?"

The name had hardly left Boston's lips before every cord of muscle in Fenix's body ground to a shaking halt. His eyes remained locked on his breakfast, and his jaw began to work slowly back and forth.

"Where did you hear that name?"

The words were spoken quietly enough, but there was no mistaking the tone of danger lurking just beneath their calm surface. Boston heard it loud and clear; he had stumbled into some unexpectedly touchy territory, and he suddenly found himself hesitating to push further.

"I...uh..."

Then, a memory from the past flashed like a lit match over his brain; blood, skin, Glasgow, _Roskar_.

_Goddammit. I'm losing my touch_.

"...Nowhere. Maybe in a newspaper, I don't know," Boston lied clumsily. "Why, it mean something to you?"

Fenix was silent, and his eyes took on an unfamiliar hazy look; Boston began to wonder if he was due for a fist in the teeth, but then his blockmate simply shook his head.

"No, it doesn't."

The surly ex-soldier hunched his shoulders, and the conversation was clearly over. Once again, the tone in Fenix's voice had told Boston that, if he was smart, he would not bring this up a second time.

Either way, as Boston watched Fenix eat, just sitting there with his ugly black eye, he knew he had made up his mind about the goddamn envelope scrunched up in his left sleeve.

* * *

><p>Much later that night, Block 38 got two deliveries.<p>

The first delivery came in the form of two-hundred-forty pounds of quivering, muttering human flesh. Not quiet dead, but close. The way the guards literally _tossed_ Cross into his cell made Boston wonder if they'd actually had to haul the prisoner all the way down from the chem shock labs on the other side of the complex.

The door slammed and locked behind Cross, and all the convicts in the immediately surrounding cells gathered to witness the spectacle of the man attempting to crawl towards his cot. He looked like some sort of brain-damaged chameleon, putting one trembling hand on the cement floor in front of him, then quickly withdrawing it several times before actually moving forward. They all watched, mesmerized, unable to turn away from the crippled horror that was trying to haul its pathetic bulk over the concrete. Even Raxis, Cross' eternal sidekick, seemed fascinated by the disturbing show.

He'd be alright, Boston knew. There were no needle tracks or trickles of blood lining Cross's arms; instead, small squares of hair near his temple had been shaved, their centres crusted over with spots of dark blood. And perhaps most importantly, his skin, while clouded with purple and black from the abuse, bore no ragged bite marks. The full use of his muscles would come back within the hour, and with a little luck, his brain would have recovered enough to form full sentences before lights-out tonight.

The twitches would take longer, but even those would go away with time.

Cross's cell was one door down from Boston's; in between was Fenix, and Boston couldn't help but sneak a look at the ex-soldier. Much to Boston's surprise and amusement, Fenix's hard features were shadowed with genuine _concern_. He pulled himself up from his place in his cot and edged towards the bars that separated him from Cross.

_Once a soldier, always a soldier._ Boston shook his head darkly as Fenix crouched by the bars, as close as he dared. _Pathetic._

"...Shit."

It was disgusting to watch, Boston decided; the rising glares of the other prisoners said the same thing. This was not how the Slab worked. It was like Fenix didn't even feel the impressive black eye that Cross had given him earlier.

No, Boston mused, Fenix probably didn't see burst blood vessels; he only saw a fellow human being who was suffering and in dire need of a helping hand.

_Fucking pathetic._

"Hey," Fenix tried. Finally, Cross turned his face up from the concrete and locked a bloodshot stare on him.

He didn't say anything; only drilled into Fenix with wide eyes. Sadly enough, Fenix took that as a plead for help.

"Look, I don't know what they did to you, but—"

"F...fuck off."

The ex-soldier could only stare blankly as Cross craned his head back around and away from Fenix's side of the bars, effectively shutting off whatever forms of communication he'd had hoped to establish.

It was brutally simple: Cross curled up into a shaking ball on the floor, and the other prisoners went back to their own business. But Fenix didn't move; he stayed rooted to the spot, motionless save for the hunching of his broad shoulders.

_It just doesn't work like that, Fenix_.

And that was when Boston decided to make the second delivery. Turning away from the stunned Fenix, Boston reached up into his sleeve and retrieved the envelope.

_Fuck you, Glasgow. Get someone else to do your dirty work._

"Present for you, GX."

He flicked the wrinkled envelope through the bars like a playing card. It fluttered soundlessly down to the floor. Fenix stared at the rectangle of white, still frozen in his place on the other side of his cell. A quick scan of his face told Boston that the man didn't expect this, but that he wasn't really surprised, either.

Slowly, he rose from the floor, scooped up the envelope, and sat down on his cot. Boston had to watch; after disobeying Glasgow's orders like he just had, he figured he at least deserved to see the letter inside. Fenix stared hard up at his blockmate.

"Where the hell did you get this?"

Boston gave a non-committal shrug. "Doesn't matter."

Fenix's eyes stayed trained on Boston for a long moment, then fell back to the letter. He skimmed the loopy print on the pale face of his delivery, then carefully pried the sealed fold apart, as though he'd been drilled on how to open a letter like a proper gentleman. For some bizarre reason, the obvious self-control almost impressed Boston. When Fenix's letter was finally freed, he set the envelope on the cot beside him and gingerly unfolded the letter.

The paper was almost more black than white. Both sides, from margin to margin, were covered in dark ink, but the print was scrawled in a hand too small for Boston to make out. Fenix held the paper with the very edges of his fingers, careful not to smudge the ink, and began to read. He was a fast reader–Boston saw that he finished the whole thing in minutes–but he went back and read it twice more. When he at last seemed satisfied with his examination, he just stared at the curly signature at the bottom–it was clearly in a woman's hand.

Boston pulled himself up to the bars.

"Who is she?"

Fenix snapped up from his letter-reading trance and glared at Boston. Without a word, he folded the paper back up, slid it into the envelope, and placed it under the thin mattress on his cot.

"No one," the ex-soldier stated plainly, as if it were perfectly reasonable that he should receive letters from people who didn't exist. Boston eyed the mattress where the envelope had been stowed; it was too far out of reach for him to somehow swipe it when Fenix wasn't looking, but then again, Boston had the feeling that they would all know who "A. Stroud" was in due time.

In the Slab, secrets had the uncanny tendency to worm their way out into the light.


	6. 5: Raw Meat

**5  
>[raw meat]<strong>

_The light is beautiful,  
>but I am darker than light.<em>

"Hey. Boston."

The hot whisper from behind made Boston's ears perk, but he didn't dare stop to turn around. Prisoners were absolutely forbidden from speaking or even gesturing to each other while travelling through the halls; the escort of guards walking alongside the shackled train of inmates was unforgivingly strict about that rule. However, sometimes the rhythmic clink of chains and shuffling boots was enough to disguise a few quick words.

But Cross, who happened to be walking behind Boston during today's mandatory trip to the recreation Yard, was apparently hellbent on chatting.

"Don't play stupid. I heard about your visit from the warden."

"And so approaching me during the most closely-guarded fifteen minutes of our day struck you as the intelligent course of action?" Boston mumbled back, keeping a paranoid eye on the nearest guard.

Cross ignored the retort. "He's got you _working_ again, doesn't he?"

"Maybe. Not really any of your business, is it?"

"It's about GX, isn't it? _Isn't it?_"

Boston's lips pressed into an irritated line; he hated when his secrets were guessed so easily. Slowly, so as not to attract any undue attention, he leaned out to get a better look of the long line of prisoners ahead of him. Fenix was farther up than usual today, trudging along in pace with the rest of his Block, shoulders slack and eyes distant.

"Shit, it _is_." Cross snorted. "I knew Glasgow wouldn't pass up the chance to fuck up a Gear."

"Whatever. We only talked once, and that was weeks ago—"

"Is he giving you a free pass on chem shock, too? Just like before?"

Hell, the overgrown, under-shaved beast of a man was beginning to sound like a kid in a candystore.

"_Maybe_. Like I said, I haven't seen the bastard since—"

Cross stepped deliberately on the back of Boston's heel.

"I want in on it."

"_Agh_. You _what?_"

"You heard me. I can put more of a hurting on GX than you ever could. So tell Glasgow I want in on it too."

"Nothing to get in on," Boston growled. "So forget about it."

Suddenly, Cross' breath was right on Boston's neck, and his voice grated with violence. "You don't seem to get it, bitch," Cross hissed. "I _need_ to keep out of chem shock. They had me strapped down in the labs for almost a day last time. I'll _kill_ a man before I go back. Do you understand?"

Primal instinct told Boston he should be afraid, that a desperate Cross was a murderous Cross, but something in the almost fearful twinge of his whisper made Boston feel a bit mad with power.

"_Well_. How sad for you, because Glasgow only asked _me_. You want to stay out of the labs, then find someone else's boots to lick."

And Boston grinned at himself, a little bounce in his step as he followed the train down the dismal hall. It wasn't every day that he got to crush people's hopes; he savoured the feeling like a drop of chocolate on his glib, lying tongue.

* * *

><p>The Slab's ashen brick walls soared over the Yard on three sides, but they did little to keep the chilly pre-spring wind from scraping the concrete surface of the prison's vast recreational area. In the Yard's far corner, Boston leaned heavily against the barbed-wire walls, shoulders hunched to the cold. He was now nursing four freshly broken fingers.<p>

_Stupid_._ Just fucking stupid._

Figured they'd all be on his dominant hand, he thought bitterly as he uncurled his fist. The pain itself was tolerable–God knew Boston had survived far worse–but the other prisoners were pretty much guaranteed to aim for his tender fingers if he couldn't stay out of the fights that usually broke out in the blood-stained Yard. Not to mention the lovely and ever-present prospect of infection.

"Hey Boston, who'd_ you _piss off?"

Boston snapped a glare on Fenix. The ex-soldier was sitting on an overturned bench–_God damn it, how did he sneak over here so quietly?_–absentmindedly fiddling with a cracked stone. Boston could see that his black eye had finally healed.

"You didn't_ see _who?" Boston spat sarcastically.

Fenix just shrugged.

"Yeah, of course you did, asshole," Boston grumbled. "Shit, I barely even did anything this time..."

Fenix turned the stone over in his rough hands. "Cross doesn't seem to bother with logic."

"Oh, quit acting like you know shit, Fenix." Broken fingers did bad things to Boston's temper. "It's not becoming of you."

The former Gear clucked disapprovingly. "Keep up the attitude, and I'll even out that broken finger ratio of yours."

Boston just gave an angry little snort, easily calling Fenix's bluff. "Yeah, fucker. Go ahead. I dare you." The prisoner sneered and patted the sleeve of his standard issue jumpsuit. "I've got something you want, remember?"

Instantly, Fenix's psycho eyes narrowed at Boston.

"You got another one."

"Oh, yes indeed. From Miss Stroud again, in case you were wondering."

The ex-soldier fell back into a neutral stance; he blew a long breath through his nose, but never extended a hand. No, Boston mused inwardly, the man was not ready to beg. Not yet.

The prisoner opened his mouth to comment on just that thought, but snapped it shut as a shadow fell over Fenix.

So the almighty Cross had felt the need to return.

Boston curled his lip up at the enormous man. "What the fuck do you want now?"

Eyes glinting darkly, Cross folded his thickly muscled arms across his chest; Boston could see the veins were still twitching.

"Just thought I'd stop back in to see if that attitude adjustment had settled in yet. How's that hand of yours?"

Boston leaned back against the wall, careful to keep his injured hand hidden from Cross' predatory stare. "You managed to miss one, actually. Now they'll be all asymmetrical when they heal."

"I can fix that, you know." Cross smirked, brandishing his fist. "No need for you to suffer."

He took a menacing step towards Boston; the smaller prisoner cringed and prepared for the all-too-familiar stars of agony to explode behind his eyes.

Fenix–suddenly _very_ preoccupied with fiddling with his stone–casually slid his foot into the brute's path.

The frantic actions of the following seconds barely even registered in Boston's brain. Cross tripped on the ex-soldier's outstretched boot, stumbled forward a few steps, then reeled on him. There was a bone-splintering crash as Cross grabbed two fistfuls of Fenix's shirt and slammed him up against the wall. Fenix's stone fell to the cement and shattered.

"What the fuck are _you_ trying to pull, asshole?"

Cross had a couple inches and an easy twenty pounds on Fenix, but the ex-Gear was stronger, and had somehow managed to secure a pair of fists on the collar of Cross' orange jumpsuit. His mutant-blue eyes bored up into his assailant.

"I could be mistaken, but," Fenix growled. "I think I owe you a black eye."

Fights were commonplace in the Yard, but the sudden crowd of bloodthirsty spectators that began to form around the duo proved that a Cross-versus-Fenix match had been well anticipated. Meanwhile, Boston, still propped up in his place on the wall, found himself asking the same question Cross had.

What _was_ Fenix trying to pull?

But Cross wasn't looking for an answer; he just laughed.

"You idiot."

Cross half-hoisted Fenix and smashed him bodily back into the fenced wall. "You think you know how to play this game, that you can just start fights and talk tough and fit in. But you're still just a pretentious fucking Gear, sticking your ugly mug where it doesn't belong. _Again_."

Another rib-crushing body slam into the unyielding concrete, this time drawing a small grunt from the ex-soldier. The stench of sweat hung heavy in the air as the crowd of watching convicts grew; some began to hoot and jeer, mostly in Cross' favour. A vein in the livid man's temple throbbed; in that smoky near-dusk light, he looked more animal than human. He pulled back a single hand and balled it into a fist.

Fenix was going to get hurt. Badly.

Gunshots cracked through the tense scene like it were a pane of glass. The echoes reverberated out over the enclosed Yard, and the impromptu boxing arena formed by the circling crowd froze in their wake. Several of the armed guards had lined up along the walls. They made no gestures, shouted no orders, but their gunpowder warning had been clear enough.

Cross, eyes wild, still had a vice grip on Fenix, but the crowd knew exactly was guards' sudden arrival meant, and was swiftly easing off. The massive inmate gave Fenix one last rough shove, then released him and backed away. The scattering of remaining spectators moaned quietly at the lack of bloodshed.

Boston was a little surprised at the guards' swift intervention. How many times had they simply sat by, completely oblivious, as prisoners mercilessly beat each other into the ground, the crack of bone ringing out over the vast empty space. Why had they chosen now to break things up? Glasgow had to have had a hand in this.

Cross was swaggering away now, enormous standard-issue boots dragging loudly across the concrete. He clearly had no intention of inciting another round of bullets from today's overzealous guards, so he didn't turn around when he fired off his closing threat.

"You're dead, Fenix. I don't know who'll get you first, me, Glasgow, or the hounds, but either way, you're completely fucking _dead_."

At this, a few of the surrounding prisoners had turned to face Fenix. Some of them were glaring, and some of them were smiling knowingly. However, Fenix appeared to be busying himself with readjusting his manhandled shirt. The guy seemed to have some practice with denying unwanted attention.

And drawing it away from others with impeccable timing, Boston added mentally.

_Interesting_. That tiny notion suddenly sent Boston's mind into overdrive. He glanced down at the sleeve where he'd stashed the latest letter; images of Fenix flashing before his mind's eye. Finally, he looked over at the ex-Gear in question, who was staring right back at him. It was clear what he wanted.

And then it all made sense. Boston almost laughed out loud at the simplicity of it. It was a tit-for-tat world; the Slab was no different. If you wanted something, you either took it by force or you bartered for it, and by placing his left boot in the path of a murderous Cross, Fenix had chosen to the latter option.

Several minutes later, after the buzzer had rung, and the prisoners were forming a grimy orange line to file back into the Slab, Boston silently slipped the letter out of his sleeve and into an ex-soldier's waiting hand.

* * *

><p>Later that night, Block 38 was blanketed in a rare shroud of quiet. While it was lovely to imagine that all the inmates were tucked cozily into their cots for their beauty rest, Boston guessed it was more likely due to the fact that the rabid pack's noisy alpha dog had been put away again: Cross was spending yet another night in chem shock.<p>

Strangely enough, after the countless nights spent wrapped in the ear-numbing clamour of the Block, Boston found all this heavy silence made it extremely difficult to fall asleep. Or perhaps it was because that, no matter how he cradled his hand, its smashed fingers would still throb painfully with his every heartbeat.

"...Boston."

And, of course, there was the chatty fucking ex-Gear in the cell beside him. Boston rolled his eyes beneath their clamped lids.

"How are you getting these?"

Was Fenix always this agitating, or was the bizarre silence just making that gravelly voice grate that much more on Boston's sleep-deprived nerves?

"I'm _talking_ to you."

"I can hear you just fine, asshole! Have you never been deliberately ignored before?"

The cot in Fenix's cell gave a teeth-tearing screech, and Fenix's harsh voice was suddenly right by Boston's head–way too close for comfort.

"_I'm not fucking around_. How are you getting these letters?"

The prisoner's eyes flew open; Fenix was hovering right above him, huge fists wrapped around the bars that separated their cells. Clenched in his left hand was the latest letter Boston had given him. Something in the inmate's pale eyes assured Boston he wasn't fucking around in the slightest.

Boston grinned in spite of himself. "Why, is it freaking you out?"

Fenix's expression made the prisoner quickly rethink his response. He gave an irritated sigh.

"Look, don't fucking act like I'm the bad guy in all of this. I'm giving them to you, aren't I? How about some gratitude..." he huffed, hoisting himself into a casual sitting position on his cot. "All you need to know is that I have something you want, and I'm not asking for jack shit in return."

The memory of the ex-soldier's boot sliding into Cross' path in the Yard suddenly flashed through Boston's mind. Grinning, he tilted his head thoughtfully to the side.

"Yet."

Fenix's eyes were reduced to distrustful slits, but even so, it was clear that he wasn't really shocked. He didn't actually think Boston would waste the leverage the letters gave him on _charity_, did he?

"What could someone like you possibly want from a _fascist asshole_ like me?" he asked at length, his tone laden with quiet sarcasm.

Boston couldn't stifle his bark of laughter. "_God_, you're thick. Sure, so maybe you _were_ a fascist asshole out in the real world. Maybe you were a picture of virtuous sainthood who rescued orphans from wells in your spare time. I don't give a fuck about what you _were_, Fenix. All I care about is what you are in here, and what you _are_ is an even match for some of the biggest, baddest assholes in this clank."

"Cut the bullshit. Just tell me what you want."

"Easy. To stay alive."

Fenix gave an unimpressed snort. "Doesn't everyone just."

"Still a highly worthy endeavour." Boston shrugged. "Everyone in here tries to murder someone else at one point or another. And you've been here long enough to know that some of them–a lot of them–make a habit of it. One in particular has been getting a bit too aggressive for my liking."

Fenix shot a grim look from the corner of his eye. "Cross."

"He's getting bad," Boston said darkly. "And the chem shock isn't helping a damn bit. If Glasgow keeps torturing him like this, he'll eventually snap. You saw him in the Yard, the way he was twitching..."

To emphasize his point, Boston raised his injured hand and waggled it gingerly.

"I doubt it will be long before he tries breaking more than just my fingers...That's where you come in, baby."

The ex-soldier's gaze fell on his blockmate's broken digits and did not move. Finally, his massive frame pulled back; Boston didn't expect the small wave of relief that inexplicably washed over him.

"So that's it, is it?" Fenix's voice was suddenly very quiet in the darkness. "You want your own personal goddamn bodyguard?"

"For fuck's sake, you're making it so much more dramatic than it has to be. You keep that crazy bastard out of my face, and you'll keep getting your letters. Simple enough for you?"

Boston could hear the ex-soldier's growl of private frustration rise in his chest. _Come on, dickwad. What's there to think about?_ Boston didn't get it: this guy was a frigging Gear, right? A dealer of death and violence, a goddamn _bullet dispenser_. Why would a little maligned smash n' crash on the side be anything less than a slow Tuesday for this asshole?

When no reply emanated from the shadowed cell, Boston smirked and played his beloved trump card.

"Unless, of course, your lady's letters aren't worth the trouble."

Fenix looked over his shoulder, levelling an acid blue stare that cut through the hot darkness and made Boston a bit flinchy.

"Never said that."

"Great," Boston said brightly, attempting to mask his nerves with cheer. "Then we have a deal?"

Those icy eyes remained locked on Boston like a sniper's crosshair. Seconds passed; Boston was tempted to throw his hands up dramatically and revoke the generous offer–_if_ he didn't suspect that the other man would snatch him by the his neck and crush his body through the bars for it.

_Wow, this guy really scares the hell out of me._

Fenix gave his head a single, tired shake. "Fine."

Boston silently congratulated himself for not twitching at the man's gravel-filled voice. He offered up an almost-genuine smile.

"Fine."

Finally, it was done. Of course, he was under no illusion that his troubles with Cross were over. Far from it. But at least now he could sleep a bit easier knowing that he had more than just creaky old bars between him and that overbuilt psychopath.

The prisoner heaved his tired body over in the cot, making sure to keep his smashed up fingers safe. Exhaustion rushed swiftly over Boston; dropping his lids, he waited for sleep to take him away from the cold cell for a few precious hours.

Then, there was a noise; a tiny, crinkling rustle that shuffled through the silence and brought Boston back from the brink of slumber. The inmate nearly ripped off his heavy boot and whipped it in the direction of the rustling, but then his fatigue-addled brain realized what it was: the whisper of unfolding paper from Fenix's cell. A knowing smile brushing over his lips, he turned his head slightly and cracked an eyelid.

"You never did tell me her name."

There was a long pause; Boston began to wonder if he'd just dreamed the sound. Then, at the last possible moment, the ex-Gear's voice slipped out from the shadows.

"Anya." Despite the overwhelming silence, Boston had to strain to hear.

"Her name's Anya."


	7. 6: Intervention

**6  
>[intervention]<strong>

_And you are wonderful,  
>but this moment is mine.<em>

For the first time in recent memory, the sun wasn't drowned out in the hot, impenetrable smog of endless industry and war. The late afternoon rays streamed down onto the Yard's concrete running track, and Boston found himself tilting his head back as he jogged along the faded paint lines, neck bared to the near-forgotten warmth. The inmate closed his eyes, letting the breeze–free of the stench of gunpowder, for once–flow over his orange-clad form.

The sound of heavy footsteps made Boston's eyes flutter open. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to watch Fenix coast past him like he was standing still.

"Running with your eyes closed?" the ex-soldier threw over his shoulder. "Dangerous."

"Shut up," Boston threw back. "I'm enjoying the scenery."

"Your grandmotherly pace suggests as much." Fenix had to shout over the distance between them now. Boston watched as the man tore easily ahead, passing other prisoners on the track like it was nothing. Several minutes later, Fenix was coming up behind Boston again. However, instead of lapping him for the fourth time that hour, the ex-Gear slowed up a bit and fell into step beside him. He was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, but his breathing was steady._ Friggin' Gears and their insane cardio_. Boston gave a weary snarl.

"What, am I your goddamn jogging buddy now? Fuck off."

Fenix hardly blinked. "And they say good weather improves people's moods."

Boston was too preoccupied with keeping his pace to fire off a smartass comment. He spared a glance in Fenix's direction: his face was calm, eyes squinting slightly in the rare glow of sunlight. His mind was obviously somewhere else.

Smiling inwardly, Boston had an idea as to what _somewhere else_ was.

"So...Who _is_ this Anya, anyways?"

The ex-soldier blinked at the bolt-from-the-blue question, but said nothing. Boston half-expected to just get smacked in the face with Fenix's typical silent treatment–or maybe just literally smacked in the face–but he generally hoped otherwise. After a few months of going behind Glasgow's back and playing postman for Fenix, the only detail Boston had managed to divine was the bitch's name. He felt his work as a double-agent earned him a few more juicy details.

Fenix swallowed. "She's my CIC officer. _Was_ my CIC officer."

Boston had no idea what CIC meant, but _officer_ sounded a whole lot like this chick was an army brat like Fenix. How risqué.

"And?"

"And...a friend."

"A friend?"

"Yes," Fenix stated shortly. "A close friend."

Boston let out a wolfish whistle. "So you're fucking her."

Fenix hardly broke stride as he unceremoniously slammed an elbow down into Boston's ribs. The inmate's momentum sent his knees crashing to the cement while Fenix continued jogging ahead at a leisurely pace.

Stumbling to his feet, the Boston half-laughed, half-coughed and threw his hands up.

"_Fuck_, alright, alright! So she's just a friend. No fucking involved. I can respect that." Holding his tender ribs, he started back up the track. "I just figured we could swap babe stories or something cute like that!"

At this, Fenix trotted to a halt and turned back to face Boston. "You know what I think?"

"No, what _do_ you think, GX?"

Fenix's eyes levelled on Boston as he approached, his tone lowered.

"I think we should stick to swapping letters."

Boston grinned. "If you say so."

The ex-Gear kept his blue gaze trained on Boston, but Boston just shook his head and jogged on. It took a while, but eventually, Fenix was running alongside him again, falling back into step without so much as a word between them. For several minutes, the only conversation consisted of panting breaths and the rhythmic beat of boots on concrete. Boston was almost ready to call it quits for the afternoon when his blockmate spoke again.

"Speaking of letters."

_Ah, shit_.

Boston ran his newly healed fingers through his sweat-plastered hair. "Yeah. Not today."

Anya Stroud's letters had become an expected event for Fenix–twice a week, usually–but lately, they hadn't been coming at all. Every morning, Boston would wait in his cell for Glasgow to come slinking in with a new letter to "torture" Fenix with, but it had been several days now, and the warden never came.

The ex-soldier slowed to a halt; blinking his thoughts away, Boston pulled up as well.

"What? Don't tell me you're going to storm off like a bitch just because I don't..."

Boston trailed off as he turned to face his blockmate. It was clear Fenix wasn't even hearing him; he was focused on something at the other end of the Yard, near the enormous doors that lead back to the Slab's dingy corridors. His jaw started to work back and forth. Following his gaze, Boston saw a small entourage of guards had burst through the doors and were marching as one unit, their hounds surging on their tight leads, through the scattering of prisoners. At their head, Glasgow strolled along, a pair of rusted handcuffs in one hand and Bethsheva's leash wrapped around the other.

_Speak of the devil_.

The guards were carrying something, Boston realized. No, not something–some_one_. As Glasgow lead them to the centre of the Yard, they fanned out and came to a halt. Draped limply over the arms of two staff members, Cross hung like a boned fish, his chin dropped down on his bloodstained chest. All around them, the prisoners were frozen, staring in silence at the warden's grand entrance.

With a single sharp flick of his gloved hand, Glasgow signalled for Cross' release. The men holding him let him crumple out of their grasp; he moaned loudly and he curled up on the pavement at their feet. All around him, the guards had to dig their heels in to keep their dogs from leaping upon the prone, bleeding man.

"Shit..." Fenix breathed, though Boston could tell by the dull look in his eye that he wasn't going to try to lend a helping hand this time. In fact, some of the other inmates–the bullish goons that had placed their loyalties with Cross–were eyeing his body like they might try to help, but the way Glasgow now looked out at the crowd kept everyone at bay. It was as if he was searching, raking the Yard for a certain face.

"...What the hell is wrong with Glasgow's mutt?"

Boston blinked; his vision had tunnelled over Cross' body, preventing him from taking anything else in, but at Fenix's prompting, he glanced over at the ever-present black form at Glasgow's heel.

"Oh my God."

The usual Bethsheva–the viciously intelligent, lethally quiet creature they'd all learned to fear–was unrecognizable. The animal at the end of Glasgow's leash was nothing less than a monster; a lunging, snarling, near-rabid blur of teeth and leathery black flesh. She was snapping at everything: the prisoners, the guards, even the other dogs. If normal Bethsheva scared Boston, this one made him want to just lay down and die. This was not a dog; this was a mindless weapon, and Boston was pretty sure that death by chem shock would be preferable to having it turned on him.

"It's the blood," Boston said suddenly, surprising even himself. "She smells Cross' blood."

The fact that Fenix didn't immediately debunk the theory with some annoying tidbit of canine biology confirmed it for Boston. Sharks frenzied when they sensed blood, so why couldn't a dog?

Like everything else in this damn hellhole, the notion scared the absolute shit out of Boston. The way Glasgow was still surveying the dusky Yard, combing it slowly with his iron stare, did sweet fuck-all to ease the nauseous fear that was rising in the pit of his stomach.

And yet, for whatever reason, Boston wasn't surprised when the warden's damning line of sight finally fell upon him.

No, he wasn't shocked, but that didn't stop his mouth from going instantly dry as the warden motioned towards him and began stalking over, two guards following in his wake. It was all over: Glasgow knew about the letters, how they weren't being used for their intended purposes. Somehow, he'd discovered Boston's lies, and now he would punish him for his unforgivable disobedience. Boston swallowed miserably: all he could see was the warden, and the gnashing maw of his hellhound as they both drew ever nearer.

Fenix, expressionless as ever, just stared as the party strode right up to them, though his eyes remained locked on Bethsheva. The increasing distance between her and the maddening scent of Cross' blood hardly brought her down from her psychotic state. Boston began to sweat as Glasgow stopped before them; Bethsheva hurled herself against the weight of her handler, globs of saliva flinging from her jaws as she snapped blindly at the air. Glasgow smiled, the scarred corners of his mouth twitching slightly.

"Boston!" He had to raise his voice over the snarling racket of his berserk pet. "Lovely to see you again. How are things going?"

Boston fought hard against the instinctive urge to run, settling for shuffling a half-step back. He opened his mouth to let out one of his handy attention-deflecting replies, but held his tongue as he understood exactly what sort of _things_ Glasgow was referring to. He glanced over at Fenix: the man didn't look any more "broken" than he did when he was first thrown to them–quite the opposite, actually. Boston groped for more lies.

"They're...going, sir."

Amidst the struggle of keeping Bethsheva restrained, Glasgow managed to raise a precarious brow, as if he were turning the inmate's ambiguous words over in his mind.

"I see."

But he wasn't looking at Boston anymore. The warden's dark eyes were locked on Fenix's pair of unnatural blues. For a brief moment, they simply stared: Fenix stood like he expected the other man to let go of the thick leash at any moment, but Glasgow's stance suggested he had forgotten all about Boston and was merely intrigued by this new specimen. Then, in a herculean show of strength, he yanked Bethsheva back and off her feet, knocking the bitch momentarily out of her wild blood lust. The warden then took advantage of the lapse in the action: his hand reached into his jacket and procured the infamous tube of pills.

Was it Boston's imagination, or did that tube look a little emptier than usual?

"Well," Glasgow sighed after popping only two of the tiny white capsules. He coughed once, then hid the tube back in the folds of his jacket, winching up the leash before his mutt could act out again. "On with business, then..."

Suddenly, he clicked his tongue like he was encouraging a stubborn horse to move and jangled the handcuffs at Marcus.

"Here, boy. You're coming with us tonight."

_He's not here for me._ Boston almost passed out from sheer relief, but then he turned to watch his blockmate. Fenix stood motionless, watching as the handcuffs were tossed from Glasgow to the guard. The heavily armed man then closed in on Fenix; the ex-soldier's stare only darkened, but he must have remembered the stories of Glasgow's tendency for violence when defied, because ultimately stepped forward, wrists somewhat offered to the guard.

Everything in his face emanated a clear _piss-off-I'm-tired_ vibe; yet, as Boston watched them cuff Fenix up, he saw that the prisoner's movements were quick and jerky, his breathing shallow. Picking up on the crackle of anxiety in the air, Bethsheva's lips curled back to let out another loud growl.

_Not knowing. That's the worst part._

Fenix didn't have a clue as to what was happening, but Boston did. In fact, every inmate in the Yard knew. They had seen it countless times before; had even been in the same position once or twice themselves. They knew, and they were watching gleefully.

_Yeah, chem shock really brings people together like that._

The handcuffs clicked audibly as the guard locked them into place around Fenix's thick wrists. Without so much as a wayward glare between warden and prisoner, the former aimed the latter at the Slab's waiting doors.

In the split second before he was shoved off, Fenix caught Boston's eye. It wasn't a look of fear, or even confusion. It was an unspoken question: a calm request for confirmation of what was to come.

_How much is this going to hurt?_

Boston saw the look; he understood the question perfectly. Face utterly blank, he answered with a resolute shake of the head.

_More than you would have ever thought possible._


	8. 7: One Sick Puppy

**7  
>[one sick puppy]<strong>

_All of this dust,  
>all of this past.<em>

"Here's good."

The Jailor smelled worse than Boston remembered. Or maybe, his mind just blocked out the unbearable stench of beer, greasy hair, and sun-baked garbage. Either way, it made for a serious distraction as he struggled to free himself from the overweight bastard's hold.

"No," Boston hissed and writhed savagely against his captor, but he was handcuffed, and the Jailor's clammy hands were deceivingly strong. "Here is not _good_."

Before him, Fenix's cell loomed, its heavy door gaping open to reveal the empty gloom within. Boston had no idea why, but after escorting Block 38 back from their dinner in the mess hall, the Jailor was suddenly hellbent on slotting him beside Cross for the night. A hurried glance to the right proved that the thug was still laying semi-conscious on the floor, but he would recover eventually, and Boston would be damned if he was beside the guy when he came to. He bucked in another desperate attempt to get free.

"Put me in my own damn cell, you fat fuck!"

The Jailor kicked Boston sharply in the calves, shoving him towards the awaiting cell. "Haha! Yer feisty tonight, ain't ya, Boz?"

Boots scrambling frantically on the rough concrete, Boston was too busy thrashing around like a crazed animal to reply with anything more than a livid growl. The other prisoners were laughing now, deeply amused by the impromptu after-dinner show.

"Aw, what'sa matter, Bozzy baby? Cross won't bite ya!"

"He's just scared of the big bad wolf. Don't worry, Boston. Last I heard, he was dying to get a moment with you..."

Fuelled by the echoing jeers, the Jailor wrenched Boston's arms brutally up, cackling at the prisoner's resulting yelp of pain. In an instant, all traces of rebellion drained from his body, and he stumbled forward.

"It's just one cell over, ya big fuckin' pussy," the Jailor spat as he unlocked the handcuffs and threw his cowed victim through the door. "Besides, you an' Cross are good friends, ain't ya?"

Lurching back around, Boston must have looked as miserable as he felt, because the Jailor let out another guttural laugh, his huge belly bulging with the motion.

"Good night, Boston. Sleep tight."

The door slammed shut in Boston's face, the damning sound of it reverberating coldly through the block. He took a few moments to glare at the slab of iron, teeth clenched and chest heaving. The prisoner could make all the sour faces he wanted, but he knew in the pit of his underfed stomach that it wouldn't make a lick of difference: he was now stuck between Cross and Fenix, perhaps permanently.

_Well, at least Cross the Barbarian is still knocked out cold. Maybe I'll be lucky and he'll just die before_—

There was the imperceptible scuff of movement from behind, and then a powerful arm hooked around Boston's neck and slammed him back into the bars.

"This is all your fault."

The words were growled right into Boston's ear, but he barely heard them as he squirmed and snatched at the arm crushing in around his trachea.

"You've...you've recovered pretty quickly" the prisoner coughed. "...eh, Cross?"

A fist drove into his sensitive lower ribs, drawing out a pained grunt.

"You listen to me, bitch, and you listen to me good." The man's gravelly voice was shaking, and Boston could feel the still-twitching veins in the arm around his neck. "I've spent the last three months in and out of chem shock, and I sure as shit ain't going back."

"You know, I could have sworn you said that a couple months ag—_aagh!_—"

His last words sputtered impotently from his chapped lips as Cross winched his stranglehold tighter, cutting off his victim's air supply.

"Too bad your new pal Fenix is too busy getting turned inside-out in chem shock, too. He'd probably be trying to help you...just like before, eh Boz?"

He loomed forward, pressing his face through the bars.

"Let me get at him." The thug's voice dragged like sandpaper over the flesh of Boston's ear. "_Hurt_ him, just like Glasgow wants."

He paused, and Boston could hear him lick his scummy teeth.

"_Just like we did with Roskar_."

"Cross...give 'er a rest, mate."

The world has tunnelled down to encompass only Boston and Cross, but they both flinched as the new voice tore it back open. Sitting in one of the cells across the hall was a short, stocky Islander leaning lightly upon its door; Raxis. However, Cross never budged, leaving Boston to hack for air.

"Are you telling me what to do, Rax?"

Raxis shook his head earnestly, his curling black tattoos gleaming in the dim light. "Never, boss man. Just figured you'd be wanting to keep on the down low, considering the rumours I've been hearing of late."

This man must have had some serious pull with Cross, because the bulging arms around Boston's throat loosened, allowing him to finally wrench free and scramble to the safe side of his new cell. "What fucking rumours? I haven't heard anything."

Raxis shrugged. "You've been in the labs for days, mate. Not exactly what I'd call _in the loop_, now are ya?"

Cross seemed to silently concede this fact, but Boston's mind had kicked into a tailspin at the first mention of the "r" word. _Rumours? What rumours?_ Boston was the goddamned king of rumours; sometimes, the collecting, trading, and forging of them was the only thing that had kept him alive. Why the hell didn't he know about this one?

"Fine," Cross grunted. "So I haven't managed to get up to date on the latest gossip. What are you getting your panties so bunched up for, anyways?"

"Medication rationing," Raxis sneered. "I heard it myself."

The revelation sparked a block-wide conversation.

"Med rations? Hah! Good one, jackass," called a deep voice from several cells down.

"How is any med rationing supposed to affect _us?_"

"By show of hands, who's been getting their daily vitamins in here? Anyone? No? That's what I fuckin' thought."

"Not for _us_, you morons," Raxis cut in, exasperated at his blockmates' endless stupidity. "For the staff. Specifically, our good warden."

There was a long pause as the other, slower prisoners struggled to put the pieces together. Raxis just gave an unimpressed snort.

"Think about it, kids. What's our warden oh-so famous for?" he prompted. "Nah, nah, not the scars..."

One of the men choked on his breath, then aptly described every inmate's immediate thoughts with two succinct words.

"Shit. _Shit_."

Recoiling back to the shadows of his cell like a wounded fox, Boston closed his eyes and spent the next ten minutes listening to the resulting storm of panic and debate.

So it was being whispered that, once again, the government had stripped down to another level of rationing and regulation, this time focusing on the medical sectors. According to the more connected prisoners like Raxis, the COG had ordered all non-vital medication to be collectivized and fed back into the military–or, more to the point, poured down the throats of dying Gears. Things must have been worse out there than Boston realized.

However, it wasn't the morals of it that would bother the prisoners. So maybe a couple of civvies wouldn't get their prescribed sleepy pills every night; no real harm there. It was the fact that a single man, one _Glasgow the Warden_, was going to have to give up his happy pills. Maybe forever.

No one knew exactly what the little white capsules did, or what sort of psychosis they suppressed in the warden, but they all knew what happened if they didn't get taken on time. Most seasoned inmates could tell if Glasgow had missed a couple of doses in a row; they measured by the body count.

Boston hadn't realized how rattled he was by the potentially disastrous news until the doors to the block swung open, and he jumped like a rabbit at a Snub shot at the mere squeaking of the hinges.

"What do you know..." Cross, instantly forgetting the impending doom, was lurking in the corner of his cell, face flush to the bars so he could see further down the hall. The other inmates were watching too, some even venturing to jeer at whoever was approaching. They just never got tired of making each others lives hell. Cross whistled.

"The cat's dragged in something nasty tonight."

It took only a few more seconds of listening to the hecklers to pick out a name among the insults: Fenix was finally being walked back from chem shock.

_No, not walked_, Boston corrected as the door to his old cell swung open. No one was ever able to walk back from the shock labs. They were always dragged. Always.

Two surly guards held Fenix up by his shoulders, resolutely hauling the prisoner into his new cell; they hadn't even bothered with handcuffs. His muscle-bound body, usually held with some semblance of posture, was now broken and motionless. Glasgow was nowhere to be seen.

Faces devoid of any emotion, the guards allowed the ex-Gear to slide off their arms, then left him in a crumpled heap on the floor. The door clanked shut; instantly, Boston slunk up to the bars separating their cells, feeling the eyes of the surrounding inmates pressing in ever closer. He narrowed his eyes at the unresponsive form, surveying for the familiar hallmarks of chem shock or, worse, dog attack.

It didn't take long: even in the shadows thrown by the sparse halogens in the hall, the signs were dead obvious. Fenix's limp arms were striped crimson with trickles of dried blood, each stemming from a track of what looked to be needle marks. The back of his shirt was blotted with red as well; Boston couldn't tell exactly what they'd done, but it looked like the blood was seeping out from more pinpricks that ran neatly down his spine. But no bite marks; not yet.

"Is he dead?" Raxis yawned, the novelty of the moment diffusing fast. "Already?"

From behind, Boston could feel Cross' presence looming. The huge prisoner shook his head, chuckling darkly. "No. He's still got his skin on him."

Another nameless inmate–a newbie, Boston guessed–pressed his face against the bars of his cell. "What do you mean?"

"If he was dead...they'd have sent back just the skin," Cross smirked. "So we can string 'em up. Like trophies."

"Bullshit."

"Truth," Boston corrected suddenly–perhaps a little more sharply than he intended. He inhaled slowly. "Have we already forgotten what happened to Roskar? Besides, why else do you think it smells like Eau de Gangrene in here?"

However, despite their reasoning to the contrary, Fenix was still looking pretty dead; Boston wondered if they'd just thrown the ex-soldier's corpse back to fuck with their heads. But then he saw the muscle spasms, heard the deathly quiet gasps for air, and he knew that he was very much alive.

"Fenix...can you hear me?"

There was no reply, and Boston went to squat by the bars, eyes transfixed on Fenix's bleeding spine. As he watched over his blockmate, an unnatural tenseness began to creep over the ex-soldier's quivering body; he began to twitch.

The real question was, just what had they done to him? In spite of the name, chemical experiments were only one part of chem shock. Boston had heard a hundred horror stories from the others, ranging from simple experimental drug testing to full-blown torture techniques they sugar-coated as "behavioural modification."

Judging by the way Fenix's bruised and bloodied muscles were spasming, Boston guessed it might have been all of the above.

"Still unconscious," Cross murmured from the adjacent cell, faceless in the dark. "_Helpless_...We could do anything we wanted."

Unable to ignore the bully any longer, Boston glanced warily over his shoulder.

"_Like hell_."

"Oh, come on, Boz. You and me, crushin' skulls, just like old times. What do ya say?"

"Like. _Hell_. Like I said, I don't need you sticking your nose where it doesn't belong," Boston growled. "Besides, it's...not what the warden wants."

"Oh, but it _is_." The other man was leering at him, a smirk creeping slowly over his ugly mug. "Come on, Boston, you're a logical man, right? Think of it: we snap Fenix's neck, Glasgow gets his sadistic rocks off, and we never set foot in a shock lab again. What part of that doesn't strike you as a _sweet fuckin' deal?_"

For the first time in memory, Cross' words punched Boston harder than his fists ever could, and his eyes widened. It _was_ a sweet deal. A flawless deal, leaving all the ends neatly tied and him laughing. It was so good, Boston knew deep down that he should have come up with it first.

_So why didn't I, then?_

Fenix rasped from the shadows, and for the scantest moment, Boston's eyes flicked down to his deeply wounded blockmate.

"No." The word slipped over his suddenly dry tongue before he could stop it. "It's...it's not what Glasgow wants. He just wants the bastard to suffer. He just..."

He cut himself off, each word making him more and more furious with this voice of madness that had suddenly commandeered his brain. But it was too late; the quiet laughter rising in the cell behind him said the damage had been done.

"Well, I'll be damned," Cross snorted. "You actually like the righteous bastard."

Keenly aware of the corner he was being back into, Boston shot off a carefully crafted look of nonchalance. "I don't give a shit about him."

"Yeah, sure. I've seen the way you two buddy up every chance you get. In fact, it's pretty funny, when I think about it."

"Funny?"

Cross sneered. "_Hysterical_. I mean, you'd think a guy with a moral compass like his would be able to smell the treachery on you from a mile away. The dumb fuck actually _trusts_ you..." More laughter rumbled in the inmate's throat. "Then again, so did Roskar."

"Shut up. Just shut up," Boston growled. He would be damned if he let Cross use the bloodstains of his past as a weapon against him. "...You did all the dirty work that night. I never laid a goddamn finger on Roskar."

"Hah! But it was all _your_ idea, you sick son of a bitch." Cross snickered like he'd just given a grand and wonderful compliment. "I've met some nasty assholes in my day, but let me tell you, Boston: you're a special kind of dirtbag. They'll thank me when I finally choke the life out of you."

Cross punctuated his words with a flash of his yellowed, mad-man smile–it seemed like everybody was wearing one these days–and Boston went pale with a toxic mix of rage and fear. But, for whatever reason, he felt his gaze fall to the body quaking on just the other side of the bars.

Somehow, Cross must have seen the way Boston stared blindly at the countless tiny wounds on the ex-soldier's arms and back, because he spoke again in a low, deadly tone.

"Let me know if you ever change your mind, Boston. Because, in the end...he'll be no different than Roskar. No different at all."


	9. 8: Cynophobia

**8  
>[cynophobia]<strong>

_All of this over and gone  
>and never coming back.<em>

The dress was the most perfect thing Boston had ever seen: a shiny, black little slip of silk that clung attractively in all the right places. It was backless, with a long slit that ran up the side, just deep enough to showcase a single creamy thigh. And to complete the look, a pair of black pumps, higher than anything a sensible woman should wear.

"Tell me, Boston..." Anya purred. "Do you want me?"

_Yes_.

The gorgeous dame glanced back over her shoulder, plump, red-painted lips formed into a deadly pout. "Yes, what?"

_Yes...please?_

A smile melted over those flawless features, and she batted her luxurious lashes.

"That's a good boy. Now relax."

_Already relaxed, beautiful_.

Then, silent and swift as the passing of a shadow, Anya was right before him, gazing warmly down at him with those big doe eyes.

"Would you be good to me, Boston?" Her hot little hands were roaming now, slipping up and down her own generous curves. For what felt like hours, Boston was unable to tear his eyes from the sultry motions, but then he remembered who he was, and just chuckled and beamed his most devilish smirk up at her.

_Baby doll, I'd be _so_ good to you_.

Finally, that seemed to please the seductress. She crawled slowly, cat-like, over his body. And when her hips pressed wantonly down into his, Boston couldn't help but suck in a breath.

_Wait wait...won't your boyfriend get pissed off?_

Anya furrowed her brow in an expression of sex-kittenish confusion. "Who?"

_GX. I mean...Marcus_._ Whatever._

At this, the vixen tossed back her head and let out a simpering laugh.

"I won't tell if you don't."

Not waiting for an answer, the gorgeous woman reached down to work on Boston's belt, her long, bright red hair falling in waves over her naked shoulders...

* * *

><p>Something rolled under Boston's head, and he jerked out of his sleep. Groaning and pawing clumsily over his face, the inmate opened his bleary eyes, then found himself staring straight into a pair of freakishly blue ones.<p>

Fenix was pressed against the limits of his own cell, one arm extended through the bars between them like he had been reaching for something in Boston's cot. However, he swiftly retracted the offending limb, and for several tense seconds, the prisoners just stared blankly at each other. For the first time since his introduction to chem shock, Boston noted that Fenix seemed to have his twitching muscles fully back under his own control.

"Well, thank _you_, asshole," Boston murmured at length, still groggy from rushing up through the layers of slumber. "I happened to be having a fantastic dream."

It was unusually quiet in Block 38; Fenix said nothing in reply. For whatever reason, that just pissed Boston off even more, and when Boston's temper flared, it tended to manifest as him running his mouth like a moron.

"It starred your lovely lieutenant, by the way."

The dead silence dragged on for several seconds, but not quite long enough for Boston to regret his smart-ass comment. And then.

"...What the fuck did you just say?"

"Oh yeah. You didn't tell me she was such a looker, though," Boston continued airily, throwing caution out the window. "Nice rack, sexy red hair; a nice, big, pornstar ass you can really sink your teeth int—"

"...Red hair?"

Boston glanced over at the ex-Gear; the man was staring at him like he'd suddenly started speaking in Pesang. "Yeah. Red hair."

At that, a snort of laughter rumbled up in Fenix's barrel chest. Boston huffed.

"What? You mean her hair isn't red?"

"No," the ex-soldier said dryly. "It's not."

"Oh..." Boston frowned, feeling more than a bit mislead. "Well, what colour is it, then?"

Fenix turned to lock a slow, almost incredulous stare on his fellow inmate, eyes glinting in the shadows. "You don't get to know." He stated each word as it should have been common sense. Disappointed, Boston crossed his arms and drew his legs up to his chest in his cot.

"Fine, be a selfish prick. See if I care. Just try not to wake me up during my next awesome sex dream, okay?" It was then that he was suddenly reminded of the position he'd discovered Fenix in just as he first awoke. The man's arm had been drawn out, reaching for something. _Invading personal space._

"What the hell _were_ you doing, anyways?"

For a sticky moment, Fenix seemed about to simply deny the question outright, but then he just heaved a tired sigh. "We switched cells," he grumbled. "And I didn't quite get around to packing my shit up to take with me."

Boston glared suspiciously at his fellow prisoner; before he could enquire as to what the hell sort of personal belongings Fenix could possibly have, understanding blossomed in his mind, and he looked down at his cot.

Or, more importantly, Fenix's old cot.

Leaning back, the convict peeled up the threadbare, heavily stained mattress and reached into the dank space underneath. He groped in the dark for only a moment before his fingers grazed the edge of what felt like paper; the letters. Of course.

"Aw. You've been _keeping_ them," Boston simpered as he pulled the wad of folded letters into his lap. "Such a romantic."

Six months ago, the ex-Gear would have slapped Boston with two weeks of simmering silent-treatment for such teasing, but now, he just seemed too tired to put on his typical _fuck-you-I'm-not-listening_ act. Instead, he only made a little groaning noise in his throat like he was dealing with an impertinent child, hoisted himself to his feet, and held out an open palm.

"Give 'em, Boz."

Unable to resist, Boston flashed his best bartering smile and flipped through the worn slips of paper. "And what are you going to give me in return?"

"The gift of unbroken knee caps. Now_ hand them over_."

As loathe as he was to admit it, Boston was a slave to his curiosity; his deft fingers selected a letter at random and held it in the only shred of light that fell from the distant hall lamps. His eyes danced over the words, taking in whole sentences at a time but only digesting half of them. He was just barely skimming, but it didn't take long to identify what was clearly the pinings of a massively love sick woman.

"Damn, Fenix. You've got this dame hooked."

Another weary sigh. "Boston."

"And who's this Dom dude?"

"_Boston._"

It was like Fenix had caught on that throwing a fit would only egg Boston on; he was still just standing easily on the other side of the bars, hand held out expectantly. In fact, he almost looked a bit bored. For a moment, Boston worried if he was getting predictable.

"Fine," the inmate relented before he let his mind think of something worse to do with Miss Stroud's writings. "Not that you've been earning them."

Fenix snatched the letters from Boston's outstretched hand. "Yeah, well, give me a full week out of chem shock, and I'll get right back on bodyguard duty, asshole."

The ex-soldier suddenly went rigid, eyes darting over to the corridor beyond, and a split second later, an inhuman shriek reverberated through the dark halls and into Boston's skull. Instantly, they were both up and at the doors of their cells.

"What the..."

The screaming was far away, but getting steadily louder; this was not the usual nightmare-plagued inmate. Whoever it was, they were moving.

And judging by the storm of hellish howling that followed, they were running for their life.

"Escapee?"

Boston's eyes snapped over to Fenix. The ex-Gear was leaning against the bars and staring down the still-empty hallway. His brows were furrowed in that permanent expression of his–whether it was one of concern or annoyance, Boston had no idea.

"Maybe." He had to raise his voice slightly over the approaching screams. It wasn't uncommon for a particularly crafty inmate to give a guard the slip when being moved around the compound.

"Then why aren't they sending someone to catch the bastard?" Cross' voice emerged from the shadows; he must have been asleep, but was evidently now just as riveted as the rest of them.

"They are." Fenix set his jaw. "The fucking dogs are coming."

The entire block was awake now, gathering at the fronts of their cages and peering down the hall. Everyone was straining to catch a glimpse of the potential violence, Boston knew.

Suddenly, the shrieks and howls were echoing over the walls all around them, merging into a single wall of white noise, and a man half-ran, half-limped past the cells, his thin face twisted by horror and desperation. The stiff grey fabric of his staff uniform was ripped right through in places. As he stumbled past, Boston managed to read the man's name tag: _Iven Manells_.

An instant later, the dogs were upon him; Manells' cry of horror was blasted from his lungs as three hounds vaulted into him and brought him crashing down to the concrete. The dogs were setting upon their prey, serrated maws open wide for the first killing bites, when a loud buzz ripped through the air, and the dogs yelped like they'd been shocked.

Maybe they _had_ been shocked, Boston realized as he watched the suddenly meek hounds scramble off the wounded man and skirt back down the hall, tails clamped between their legs. The thick leather collars around their necks must have been electric.

But the whole scene wasn't making any sense; Boston watched Manells, battered but unbitten, as he attempted to crawl to some imagined place of safety, whimpering quietly in the shadows. The dogs were nowhere to be seen; why had the guards called them off and allowed this man to live, when it would have been just as easy to—

A thin, horrible sound rose in the block: laughter, colder and sharper than any blade, permeated the air. Instinctively, the prisoners shrunk back from the edges of their cells, though they were unable to escape the unmistakable sound of utter madness that threatened to drown them.

Alone in the dark, Manells was on the verge of tears.

"P-please, sir, please..."

A second peel of maniacal laughter drowned out Manells' frantic begging. Slowly, a shadow separated itself from hall's general gloom, and Glasgow bared his scarred face in the dim light of the hall's lamps.

"Please _what_, Manells?"

"Oh God, sir, please, I don't—"

"Please _what?_" More figures emerged from behind the warden; the three hounds paced around at the lengths of their new leashes, their hackles once again raising as their rabid rage overtook the memory of the shock collars. Strangely, none of them was Bethsheva. "Didn't your mother teach you to use big boy words?"

"I...I don't...sir, please...I can't...can't..."

Glasgow blew a little sigh through his teeth, then turned to one of the cells across the hall from Boston: the inmate who occupied it had long ago scuttled to the back wall, and he watched wide-eyed as the warden began to tie his dogs' leads around the rusted bars.

"It's a pity things had to end like this, Manells..." Glasgow tossed over his shoulder, far more concerned with getting his knots tied properly than the fact that Manells was trying to drag himself away. "Of course, there was that unfortunate incident in the security room last year, but that was really just a slight smear on your otherwise stellar record of employment."

Having secured all three mutts' leads to the bars, Glasgow reached down to his sleek leather utility belt and retrieved a short, stunted knife.

"Yes, a pity indeed."

Manells was instantly drained of what little composure he had left; his pleads for mercy morphed into garbled cries of horror. Boston barely heard Fenix curse breathlessly as Block 38 watched the nightmare unfolding outside their cell doors.

The warden crossed the hall in two long strides, then almost knelt on top of his employee.

"No no no! Glasgow, I'm s-sorry, I'm—"

"I've been more than forgiving with you, Iven."

"I know, _I know_," Iven Manells gurgled miserably. "I didn't know I wasn't supposed to...They just came and asked for what supplies we could spare, and...and—"

The knife was brought up to the staff member's face, the clean edge flush with his trembling cheekbone.

"And you thought it would be wise to show the good colonel the lone cabinet of medical supplies? The one only _I_ ever seem to make use of?"

"I had no idea it was your stash! On my mother's grave, I swear it! They w-wanted supplies, and that was all I had to show them!"

Glasgow clamped a single hand over the younger man's mouth, muffling the resulting cry. Then, slowly, the warden dragged the blade along Manells' face, gently tracing the bone structure beneath the yielding flesh. In the muddy glow thrown down by the halogens above, Boston could see the line of crimson left behind on the man's face.

"I'm terribly sorry, but there really is no way to forgive you."

Eyes doubling in size, Manells wriggled feverishly under his superior's crushing weight, though his efforts were fruitless, and his screams burst uselessly in his throat. Glasgow's scars twisted joylessly up into his cheeks as he leered down at his helpless prey. The staff member just sobbed, eyes rolling with terror and confusion.

Suddenly, Glasgow got up off Manells. Boston shook his head with slow disbelief: Glasgow just _got up_, returning his knife to his belt as he hoisted himself to his feet and walked back to his snarling dogs.

"O-oh, oh sir! Thank you!" Manells sputtered, his face alight with pathetic gratitude. "I promise I'll never screw up again, I promise! You won't regret this!"

Glasgow stopped then, one hand on the dogs' ties; for a moment, the entire block iced over, and the monster smiled.

"No, I certainly won't."

And then he tilted his head slightly towards the seemingly endless hallway.

"Bethsheva!" he called, clear as a church bell through winter air. "_Seek_."

He must have had her waiting, positioned at the ready by the block's front doors, because within seconds, the growling, the clicking nails, and the snarling breathing of a single animal rocketed down the rows of cells. Manells just lay paralyzed on the floor; dark liquid seeped from the slender cut Glasgow's blade had left, trickling over his confused features from his temple.

_Oh, shit, the blood_. The revelation blazed across Boston's mind. _The fucking blood_.

Poor Manells didn't even understand what was happening when the black, fanged torpedo slammed into him.

He'd never admit it, but Boston shut his eyes before he saw the animal lock down for the first bite. But the instant peel of agonized screams and gnashing teeth painted a horrifically vivid picture in Boston's mind; he could envision the slaughter as clearly as he could hear it. Snapping jaws, shredded flesh, and the final, strangled wails of life.

The carnage seemed to go on for hours, but at last, the screams ended, leaving only the bitch's snarling to echo through the halls. Even the other three hounds had been reduced to whining husks of trembling fur in the wake of murder they sensed.

"Bethsheva." Glasgow's voice, quiet as the acrid death that saturated the air, made Boston's skin crawl. "Sweet girl, heel. Yes, that's my good girl. My dear, sweet girl, yes..."

The growling faded quickly, then stopped completely. There was the rhythmic _tap-tap-tap_ of bloodied claws on cement, and then the only sound came from Glasgow. He was breathing heavier than Bethsheva was.

"Come, lovely. Let's get you cleaned up."

Boston slowly unscrewed his eyes, careful to keep them from straying to the gory scene laying just inches from his cell's bars. Looking over to the cell beside him, he tried to catch Fenix's eye, but the ex-soldier had his back to it all. Instead, Boston listened to the sounds of Glasgow collaring Bethsheva, untying the other dogs, and sulking off into the darkness with his four pets. The inmate cursed under his breath.

So this was how it started; only days into the med rationing, and already, Boston knew they wouldn't stand a chance. There would be no way to stop this monster, no way to sate it...

_Unless._

He didn't want to, was scared out of his mind to, but he somehow found himself staring into the cell on the other side of his own: Cross' cell. The tall, brutal inmate was staring right back; he caught Boston's eye, slowly and deliberately, then flicked his gaze over to Fenix. A seductive conman's smirk broke his ugly face, and Boston knew they were answering that lingering _unless_ with the same solution.

Sometimes, the only way to get a hungry wolf off your trail is to throw it some of your own fresh meat.


	10. 9: Mad Dog

**9  
>[mad dog]<strong>

_All of this forgotten,  
>but not by me.<em>

The sun was setting earlier every day. Now, night fell like a hammer, imbuing the Yard with a menacing vastness it lacked in the daylight hours. In the scattering of moonlight, the soaring walls seemed like little more than leaden shadows, intangible as the snow that spiralled silently around them. Somehow, the night air felt stagnant in spite of its frosty nip.

And Glasgow was off his goddamn meds.

Boston's body was racked by an immense shiver, and while the winter wind was a bit chillier than usual for tonight's recreational Yard Hour, he knew he wasn't shivering because of the cold.

The staff member–one Iven Manells–was dead. There hadn't even been anything recognizable to take back to the family. It might have been the monster Bethsheva that tore the life from him, but his gushing blood was on Glasgow's hands alone. Either way, the rumour brought to them by Raxis was finally confirmed.

In the few days it had taken for the story of the brutalized watchman to worm its way around the Slab, the entire atmosphere of the complex had been completely upended. The very quality of the prison's air had changed; it was thicker now, polluted with the palpable sense of dread that seeped from cell to cell. Even now, out in the icy, wind-stripped Yard, Boston could taste the prisoners' wild anxiety. All at the mere suggestion of an un-medicated, unrestrained, _unthinking_ Glasgow.

Of course, the inmates were no strangers to this insane transformation of their good warden. It had happened once before, when the first med rations were just being put into place. The protocols had been severe, and the Slab had suffered dearly for it. They knew what they were in for; like beaten dog that understood exactly what was coming, they all had their tails between their legs. Boston shook his head.

_Speaking of pathetic animals..._

"Hey, Fenix. How're you holding up over there?"

The only response Boston received from the hulk laying on the frozen concrete several feet away was a teeth-clenching growl.

"Still on the ground, are we? Have you even _tried_ to get up?"

This time, Boston didn't even get a grunt. Fenix was on his knees in the gently blowing snow, folded in on himself completely. His hands were wedged tightly in his armpits; his head drooped to the cement.

"No? Well, if it's any consolation, I think the bleeding has slowed up a little."

If Fenix heard Boston, he gave no indication. The man's body tensed up, then twitched violently as he fought down another convulsion. Boston stared blindly at the red splatters on Fenix's shirt, the cloth rippling as the muscles beneath bulged and spasmed. His veins had turned a dark purple hue from the abuse that had been pumped through them. There was a feverish gulp of breath, and the tortured ex-soldier hissed quietly.

"Fuck...fuck..._fuck_..."

In the numb, black hours after Manells' death, two guards had come to drag Fenix off to the chem shock labs. Again. He had been gone for almost two full days–enough to bring anyone to the very edge of death–and Boston had begun to wonder if Glasgow was crazy enough to skip all the drawn-out head games and just kill Fenix outright.

But he didn't. Fenix had been returned to their imprisoned ranks, but he wasn't recovering like he had before. The guards had hurled him to the snowy corner of the Yard, and it was there that the ex-soldier had spent the last forty minutes, motionless save for the horrible shaking.

For a moment, Boston felt something twinge up inside him. Something like..._pity?_

Yeah, maybe something like that. Distantly, he almost wished he had a letter to distract Fenix with, but it had been months since Glasgow had dropped any off; judging by the warden's current mental state, Boston doubted they'd ever hear from Anya Stroud again.

_Not that Cross'll let him live long enough to miss her_.

The inmate gave his head a hard shake. There he went again,_ giving a shit_. What the hell was wrong with him? For once, this was all something he was used to. Killing another prisoner to benefit himself; business as usual. Old fuckin' hat.

_Right?_

The crunch of multiple boots in fresh snow made Boston flinch. Most of the other inmates were huddled miserably by the walls and fences; he raked the gloom for any sign of the approaching party, but the blanket of endlessly falling snow reduced visibility to almost nothing. As the footfalls grew louder, they were accompanied by crude laughter and gruff conversation; shapes began to form out of the blackness, and a handful of prisoners emerged from the snowy void. At their head, the alpha brute was laughing the loudest. Cross, Raxis, and their pack of lackeys were coming.

Subconsciously, Boston sank down to the concrete, crouching in the drifting snowbanks like a prey animal. He watched the rough crew of murderers, rapists, and thieves as they prowled ever nearer, remembering clearly the silent agreement he and Cross had made back in Block 38. Ever since Fenix had been so fortuitously hauled off to the labs, Cross had been watching, and waiting. Killing a man fresh out of chem shock was cowardly, cruel, but oh so wonderfully effective.

"Well. Well. _Well_. Lookie here, boys."

Boston didn't raise his eyes, though he knew he was surrounded by them. "Cross."

"Evenin', Boston." Cross flashed a sickly smile. "Tell me, have those fingers of yours ever been the same?"

"Oh, they healed," Boston murmured. For some reason, he was almost grateful for the tangent. "Poorly, of course. They're quite a bit more crooked than I would like..."

Cross snorted absently, his harsh features a mask of streamlined violence that Boston's idle chatter merely bounced off. He swaggered over to Fenix. "He's down, eh?" Cross cocked his chin down at the unresponsive inmate, lip curled in an expression of mild disgust. "Can't believe the fucker's still alive. Two days in the labs...shit."

Raxis' shadowy form stepped up from the faceless group of thugs, eyes glinting from amid his swirling tattoos. "Lookit his veins, bossman. Black as the plague. The bastard probably _wants_ 'imself dead."

At that, Cross' expression contorted into one of unadulterated bloodlust.

"Ah, but that would take all the fun out of it."

The inmate cracked his neck, then his knuckles, and gestured to Boston. "So, Boz." Cross' eyes never left Fenix's shaking form. "You've still got that knife you smuggled in with you, right?"

Boston's mouth could only work soundlessly for a few hasty seconds, the words frozen in his throat like a chunk of poorly chewed food. He thought about the knife, safe in his pocket, then about how it would slit Fenix's throat. It wouldn't be an easy task; the blade hadn't been sharp in years, and the ragged edge would make it a horribly messy job...

"Cross...wait."

The larger inmate turned on Boston, slowly, like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"What the fuck do you mean, _wait?_"

"Maybe...maybe we're fucking this up." Boston's voice was low; only he and Cross could hear it over the shapeless clamour of prisoners' voices and low gusts of glacial wind. "What if this isn't what Glasgow wants? What if...if..."

There was a long, sticky pause. Glasgow's chums shifted their boots eagerly in the snow drifts. Cross continued to stare; then a short burst of incredulous laughter escaped between his gritty teeth, though his gaze never lost its frigid blankness.

"You know Boston, sometimes, I just don't think you're cut out for this."

Out of the corner of his eye, Boston saw the bloody bulk of Fenix's body stir, and he found himself hoping his blockmate would just _get up_. Desperate to stall for time, Boston mustered up his best scowl and opened his mouth to snap off a second warning, but the words stretched into a cry of agony as Cross' hand flashed out and crushed Boston's fingers.

"I'm sick of you getting in my way, Boston."

As Cross spoke, he wrenched the hand around, grinning as he heard all the tiny little snaps and cracks. Boston's cry erupted into a scream. He could hear Raxis' phlegmy laughter.

The prisoners all across the Yard turned towards the piercing noise, beady eyes prying. Sparks of hot pain blossomed over Boston's vision. Blindly, he snatched at Cross' iron grip, trying desperately to free his splintering bones.

"You just ride on everyone else's coattails, flying under the radar while we get fuckin' gutted, don't you Boz? _Don't you Boz?_"

More crushing, more screaming.

"Well, I'm done with trying to figure out whether or not I should keep you around anymore. Things are going to change," Cross hissed. "Starting tonight."

In a single practiced movement, Cross simultaneously twisted and yanked, and Boston felt the reverberations of his shattering wrist all the way up through his arm. He didn't hear his own scream, but he could feel it burn as it tore free from his throat. He crashed into the snow, and blinding white agony collapsed into throbbing blackness.

_No, stay in it, Boz. Stay in it. You can't black out here. You'll freeze to death. They'll skin you alive. Stay in it. Stay in it._

Somehow, he managed to cling to his consciousness. But just barely. He was swimming in heavy darkness; thoughts were reluctant to form properly. Pain and cold gnashed mercilessly at his brain.

_ "Alright, Rax, keep a lookout: I've got Fenix."_

Words. They were drifting around him, lazily. They sounded like they were spoken under water. He tried to understand.

_ "And what 'bout Boston?"_

_ "All yours, my friend. All yours."_

Conversation paused; boots shuffled in the snow around him.

_ "Shit, Cross, look...GX is awake."_

_"Well, what do you know. So he is. What the fuck are you looking at, Fenix?"_

_ "Don't think he heard you, mate."_

_ "Bullshit, Raxis, he's looking right frigging_ at_ me. With his freaky fucking eyes. What are you _looking_ at, pig?"_

Silence. And then.

_ "You."_

_ "Oh, it talks now. No shit you're looking at me. Why? You got a problem, Fenix?"_

_ "...Maybe."_

Fenix's voice was weak. It paled in comparison toCross' laughter; deep, dangerous.

_"Really? That's funny, jackass, 'cause from what I can see, you're in no condition to be having problems. Least of all problems with _me_."_

No reply; only silence. A hundred miles away, trapped on the other side of consciousness, Boston hoped that Fenix would have the brains to keep it that way.

_"You know, Cross, I could be wrong, but I don't think he liked it when you squashed Bozzy's fingers there."_

_ "Hah! Oh yeah? I'll be damned..."_

Slow, heavy footsteps crunched closer, and then the sneering voice was suddenly right on top of Boston.

_"Ol' Boz certainly has been looking after you, Fenix. You guys best friends forever now? I mean, the way he was mouthing off at me, you'd think he was going to try to save you. You! It's pathetic. But I wouldn't trust Bozzy if I were you. Oh, no. Maybe you should start taking care of your problems on your own, Fenix. You _were_ a Gear, after all."_

More snow-dampened silence.

_"Come on, Fenix. You got a problem? Come and do something about it."_

No reply.

_ "Get up, you sorry sack of shit."_

And still nothing.

Boston suddenly felt the weight of a boot tread on the side of his temple, and he became very nervous. When Cross spoke, Boston could hear the slick smile in his voice.

_"If you don't get up, Raxis will crush dear Bozzy's skull."_

A grunt issued forth from Fenix's direction, but Boston couldn't make it out.

_Oh, fucking hell, Fenix. _Do_ something._

The blunt pressure on Boston's head tripled in strength, mashing his numb face into the cement. _"Get up, or Boz's head explodes."_

More unintelligible grunting; Boston prayed to God that all those letters given would finally pay off.

_"Hmm? You're going to have to speak up, Fenix. We can't hear you."_

"...I said...Give me. A fucking. _Second_."

Boston's eyes shot open.

Fenix was still hunched over, arms crossed and eyes glaring at the snow before his knees. Ignoring the ex-soldier's request, Cross chuckled and Raxis raised his boot, but Fenix suddenly made an attempt at getting vertical again.

There was a furious growl, followed by several seconds of agonized clawing, and then Fenix was on his feet, one hand clutching the nearby fence. His eyes were like embers in the darkness, but the shaking of his half-hunched back belied his vulnerability.

"O-one second." He managed a tone of mild annoyance despite his laboured breathing. "That's all I asked for."

Cross' eyes said he was disappointed the ex-soldier had met his challenge. He gave Boston's neck a longing look, as if he might still snap it just for the hell of it, but instead he waved Raxis off and levelled a final glare on Fenix.

"Good to see you on your feet, asshole. We've got unfinished business."

Boston's relief at being saved melted away as Fenix hesitated. While Cross' face had pure murder etched into every snarling line, the determination in Fenix's expression was shadowed with grim reluctance. Boston couldn't believe it: the ex-soldier was still looking for some other way. In spite of all the pain and suffering, he was still treating this like one long field mission, forever trapped within that self-made cage of COG protocol and moral code.

For whatever reason, the instant of Gear-like dignity flipped a hateful switch in Cross.

"You pathetic fuckin' dog," Cross spat. "I don't even know why Glasgow ever wanted to bother with you."

Breathless with sudden rage, the convict took a step towards Fenix. Boston watched the two men. They were both massive, but Cross was still taller, and Fenix was just getting over the nasty side effects of chem shock. And yet, even when Cross shoved his face into Fenix's, the man didn't flinch. The absence of fear in his victim's features was making Cross livid.

"You don't get it, do you? You're the ticket," he seethed. "Glasgow wants you to hurt. If I kill you, that'll make Glasgow happy. And he'll keep me out of the labs. Right, Boz? Wasn't that the deal you two agreed to?"

Cross' voice rose; some of the nearby prisoners were beginning to clue into what was coming, and they pressed in. Boston glanced up towards the Yard's snow-capped walls, but the guards weren't even watching the unfolding clusterfuck below.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Fenix. The pain, the shackles, the _screaming_. Well, I refuse to go back to the labs. If I do, I'm dead...Unless I give Glasgow your head on a silver platter." He curled back his cracked lips, eyes flickering hungrily. "So that's what it comes down to, Fenix. Either I die in the labs on a cold operation table, or you die out here in the cold snow. Nothing personal."

As he growled the last words, Cross drew back and smashed his fist into Fenix's jaw. The growing throng of inmate spectators roared.

In spite of all his sudden confidence, Fenix went down hard. He tumbled backwards, crashing into the wall behind him like a knocked-out boxer. Cross glowered over his quivering form, but his face was devoid of any triumph; he wouldn't be satisfied until Fenix's blood had been spilled. All of it.

"Hurting yet?"

Fenix wasn't given a chance to answer before Cross' boot connected squarely with his cheekbone. The impact sent him reeling again; Cross dove right after him. He pummelled the injured ex-soldier with blow after blow, waiting cruelly for him to struggle to his hands and knees, then driving him back down to the icy concrete. The crowd screamed with joy at the brutally one-sided show.

For a fleeting moment, Boston thought Cross might have already gotten his desire for spilled blood. Fenix lay broken in the snow; he wiped a still-clenched fist along his jaw, and a long smear of bright red marred the skin under his swelling lip.

But the lip itself was clean. Then, even from his place curled up on the cement, Boston saw it: the blood came not from Fenix's face, but from his shaking fists. The man was digging his fingers into his palms so viciously, his ragged nails were piercing the skin.

Boston's eyes flicked from Cross, to Fenix, then to Fenix's hands. The blood was now trickling out between his trembling fingers. The little things gave the ex-soldier away; all the long months of abuse had maxed out his patience, and now he was going to do something about it.

Fenix might just let himself snap.

Cross didn't see it. To him, Fenix was just another defenseless victim: the convenient solution to his chem shock woes. He didn't see the bloody fists, the madly twitching jaw muscle, the murder in those blue, blue eyes. He just smirked, and lifted his foot to curb stomp Fenix into permanent oblivion.

In a blur of action, Fenix surged up from the ground and hurled every ounce of his muscled weight into Cross, causing the crowd to erupt in ravenous cheers. Cross' fist found its mark again on the ex-soldier's chin, but he simply took it in stride and bowled Cross over. There was a resounding crash as Fenix slammed down onto his opponent.

He reached for the vulnerable neck.

In spite of being out of the army for a full year, the remnants of the soldier's training were obvious. It made sense that unarmed Gears were taught to fight with brutal efficiency; to avoid the fist fights altogether and go straight for the kill. And that's exactly what Fenix did, though Boston wondered if he was even aware of it. His blood-stained hands closed around Cross' neck, and as he began to systematically crush down on the throat, Cross was rendered completely helpless.

The spectators were changing sides, and shouts for Fenix began to drown out Cross' name. Even from behind the veil of his fading consciousness, Boston was impressed by the _sleekness_ of it. There were no flailing punches from Fenix, no wild grappling. All of that was now coming from Cross as he attempted to free himself. But Fenix just stoically took every punch Cross threw at him, each one weaker than the last, as he pinned his opponent to the ground with his knees. His face was strained by the effort, yet so perfectly calm.

For the ex-soldier, the only fists that existed were his own, wringing around Cross' throat so tight, they were bloodless. The crowd began to chant.

"_Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!_"

Everyone was there now, closing in to watch as Cross gurgled helplessly under Fenix's immense weight. He must have finally cut off Cross' air supply, because the larger prisoner suddenly stopped punching wildly and began to claw at the hands that were crushing his trachea. Fenix only leaned further over his opponent to put every ounce of waning strength into his merciless grip.

"_Kill him! Kill him!_"

Cross' mouth gaped, eyes brimming over with horror and desperation, but his final cry was drowned out by the raucous chanting. He struggled one last time, limply, then there was a sickening crunch as muscle and cartilage finally gave way to flawlessly-trained wrath, and the prisoner's windpipe splintered beneath Fenix's shaking hands.

The Yard exploded with cheers. Whether the prisoners were ecstatic to see a feared tyrant finally put to death, or simply intoxicated by the heady display of violence, Boston couldn't tell. The cold scene around him dimmed as the agony in his broken wrist threatened to take hold again, but his gaze was frozen on Fenix: the man was still straddling Cross' body, chest heaving, staring into his victim's eternally widened eyes. Finally, the ex-soldier blew a long, halted breath, hoisted himself off the dead prisoner, and limped away.

The cries of the crowd filled Boston's ears, nearly drowning out the rhythmic crash of his pain-maddened heart. With eyelids flickering heavily, he watched as non other than Raxis drew a stunted knife from the folds of his coveralls and stalked, smirking, over to Cross' corpse. Even as Boston slipped silently off the edge of consciousness, he understood perfectly.

There was a trophy to be made.


	11. 10: Nerve Damage

**10  
>[nerve damage]<strong>

_And I have searched for a reason to go on.  
>I've tried and I've tried,<br>but it's taking me so long._

"Fenix."

The ex-soldier was stowed away in his cot, back to the grungy wall; his broad shadow was all that was visible from Boston's vantage point. It didn't move.

"Hey. Fenix."

Still nothing. Boston sighed.

Scattered all around him was a mess of elastic bands, wires, and other miscellaneous bits he'd scavenged throughout the night. Doing his best not to jostle his aching, swollen clusterfuck of a wrist–the flowering greenish purple bruise suggested his hand and fingers were broken as well–the prisoner began to pick the collection over for acceptable splint-making material.

"It's...not that bad, bud."

The shadow hunched its shoulders in the direction of what was formerly Cross' cell. "Not that bad? _Look at him_."

Boston didn't glance up from the handful of bent iron strips he was inspecting. He didn't need to look; he could _smell_ it just fine.

"...That's what happens here," he replied dismissively. "You should know that."

"Right. Skinning a man before his corpse is even cold and hanging it up like a portrait is normal for you fucks, isn't it?"

It was the most Fenix had said since they were dragged back in from the Yard the night before; the scathing venom in his voice set Boston back on his heels.

"Come on...You just killed someone. That's it."

"I lost _control_," Fenix spat back: the growl of a weary animal.

Boston stared at the heavy gloom where his blockmate sat. "God. So you _lost control_ and killed someone. So _what?_ I don't know if you noticed, but you're not exactly surrounded by paragons of humanity here." Boston was careful to keep his voice low so as not to wake the rest of Block 38 from their rare slumber. He fiddled clumsily with a wisp of torn shirt, attempting to wrap it around his ruined wrist. Barely a day old, the breaks were still excruciatingly tender, and every heartbeat set off an eruption of pain beneath the too-tight skin. "Look, this isn't your run-of-the-mill jail; this is maximum goddamn security. The _Slab_. Might as well wake up and smell the bloodstains, because that's as pretty as it gets."

Clearly unmoved, Fenix dismissed his blockmate's long-winded reply with a disgusted snort. Boston just shook his head. Why couldn't Fenix understand? These were the rules of life in the Slab; either you killed, or got killed. Wasn't that the very first thing they taught you in Basic Training? The showdown with Cross was just a vivid exercise in that simple concept. How was choking out a crazed thug in a prison yard any more barbaric than putting a bullet in a grub's brain?

"...This is what they do to our dead."

Boston barely even heard the man's murmur, but something in his tone made him tear his gaze from his makeshift splint and glare over at the adjacent cell.

"This is what _who_ does?"

"The Locust," Fenix spoke quietly, but clearly. "They don't take prisoners. But they take back bodies. They take them, and they do exactly what you do."

The hot air was suddenly very close in the tiny cells; Boston could hear Fenix's every word as it crossed the empty darkness between them.

"What...they skin them?"

Fenix stepped out into open view then. His face was a patchwork of bruises and broken skin, but his posture remained straight and rigid. Boston could see the muscles built up along his spine were still twitching. "Sometimes. Or they'll decapitate them, put the heads on stakes. Or pile the corpses up and let their pets eat their fill."

The ex-soldier stared out into space, hands curling into loose fists at his sides.

"Sometimes, if you're really unlucky, you'll get there just in time to chase off the starving Wretches. And then you get to identify the gnawed femurs and ribs so the families have something to bury."

Fenix turned and fired that lethal stare that Boston so often found himself a victim of. The man's eyes held no anger, no contempt; only a crushing coldness that condemned both his surroundings, and himself.

Against his will, Boston dropped his eyes to the ground at his boots.

"It could have been _you_," he stated quietly, pretending to focus on the shred of shirt he was straining to wrap around his wrist. "Easy. You could be the one strung out like a dog hide on the pipes up there."

The ex-Gear tossed off a snort that landed halfway between laughter and derision. "Yeah? And would you have helped them? Just like Raxis helped skin his 'mate'?"

At this, memories flashed like gunfire through Boston's brain: he saw old Roskar, hanging in shreds from the pipes. Just like Cross. Brow furrowing, Boston imagined Fenix sharing their fates, and a voice leered at him from within.

Would_ I have helped?_

_ What's so special about the ex-soldier?_

He cringed._ He'll be no different than Roskar. No different at all..._

However, the last sneering voice didn't belong to Boston's conscience, but rather to the man whose pelt was hanging limply from the ceiling just metres away.

"No," Boston said sharply, though he wasn't sure which voice he was trying to shut up. He pulled at the half-knotted wrist bandage he'd managed so far. "No, I wouldn't. I wouldn't have the chance; once Cross finished up with you, my neck would probably have been next on the list of things to snap in ha—_aagh!_"

Boston almost chomped through his own lip as he slipped and bumped his swollen hand. Stars exploded behind his eyes, and he was nearly overcome by the sudden wave of blackness that crashed in from the edges of his vision.

Then he felt something grab his poorly-wrapped hand.

"Ow! Goddammit, Fenix, what the hell are you—!"

"God, will you shut _up_..." The ex-Gear was kneeling, both hands reached through the bars between them as he pressed the makeshift splint roughly to Boston's wrist. He began to wrap the injury properly. The pain blazing up and down Boston's whole arm nearly sent him slumping backwards into unconsciousness again, but he still found the strength to struggle fruitlessly.

"Ow, ow, ow, fuck, _ow_, let go, let—"

"For fuck's sake, quit your whining and hold still."

At last, Fenix tugged the shred of shirt as tight as the swollen muscles would allow, then yanked it into a neat, immovable knot. For a few dizzying seconds, Boston saw double, but when he'd once again gained shaky control over himself, he could see that his hand was now swathed in an impeccable splint. Fenix was still crouching by the bars, eyes burning brightly through the mask of cuts and bruises.

"Let it heal properly this time. I'll be damned if I have to hear you bitch and moan about it every night for another three months," The ex-soldier growled, clearly still pissed off. "I'm not doing that again, either, so don't fuck with it."

Boston blinked, fighting down a wave of nausea, but he forced himself to meet Fenix's gaze. Was he repulsed? Was he just like everyone else in this God forsaken slaughterhouse: disgusted by this man's actions, his inexplicable humanity? Did he feel the same contempt now that he'd felt when Fenix had first tried to help a chem shocked Cross, almost a whole year ago?

"This is my fault."

It happened in an instant, though it felt like the words had spilled from someone else's mouth. Truth was an uncomfortable and dangerous concept for Boston; hearing his own spontaneous confession made him want to vomit even more than the pain in his wrist did.

The ever-present hum of recycled air rushed in behind the inmate's voice. He waited, pressed his lips together, but Fenix never broke the quiet.

"It's _all_ my fault. Everything," Boston continued, caring less and less with every passing second. Like sucking rattler poison from a bite wound, it all had to come out. "Cross jumping you in the Yard, the deal I made with Glasgow, the fucking letters, the—"

"I know."

Boston snapped up, his veins running through with instantaneous ice. But Fenix's harsh visage hadn't budged; he was still kneeling on the other side of the bars, his iron gaze never moving. Boston shook his head once, not comprehending. "How...What do you..."

The ex-soldier dragged his tired shoulder muscles up into a shrug. "Cross talked a lot of shit about you and your warden before he made that attempt on my life. Shit about _deals_." He set his lips in a stony line, as if having to explain himself depressed him. "Wasn't hard to figure from there."

"And you...? But, the letters..."

"Just part of the deal, right?" Fenix asked darkly. "Had to bleed for something."

Boston was dumbstruck. Of course, he'd always known that beneath the rough and tumble exterior, Fenix was an intellectual powerhouse. Always watching, always analyzing. And now, looking back, Boston could see how blind he'd been. Once again, he'd underestimated Fenix. _Stupid_.

The prisoner winced. "I'm...sorry."

He wasn't sure if the words rang true–fuck, he wasn't sure if _any_ of the emotions twisting around in his snake pit of a chest were sincere anymore–but he wanted to say them anyways. He watched his blockmate, steeling himself for the surefire mockery, but Fenix just snorted and pushed himself to his feet.

"So," he said, steamrolling right past Boston's meagre offering. "Glasgow gave you the letters, then kept you out of chem shock for fucking with me." He cracked his neck: casual, like they'd been having light conversation over coffee. "Don't tell me I'm the first."

The ex-soldier's voice was airy, but his face was glacial. There might have been a time when being backed into a corner like this would have terrified Boston, and his instincts told him to lie and wriggle like a trapped rabbit. But the truth was, he was exhausted, and his wrist was flaring like a sunspot of agony, and he was getting tired of keeping his secrets wrapped up in a careful bundle that his life supposedly depended upon. He didn't care enough, not anymore.

"No. There were others." Boston forced himself to remember each incident: a smattering of blood-red events on a calender's worth of grey routine. "And there was Roskar."

Fenix sat back in his cot, the unforgiving metal complaining loudly at his weight, and issued a grunt of mild understanding. Boston was surprised he remembered the old Islander's name.

"To what end, then?" The ex-Gear rumbled. His hands, still stained from the fated act of the previous night, unfolded on his knees. He studied the open palms, eyes skimming over the crusted blood and weathered lines. "Why Roskar, and why me?"

After a year of blindly rebelling against the Slab's corrupt and twisted philosophies, Fenix was finally learning to step back and see them for what they were. Boston wasn't sure how the change in his blockmate sat with him, but he knew it was inevitable.

The prisoner thought about the question, then shook his head as he realized he knew the answer far too well.

"I used to think Glasgow had a vendetta, that he just wanted to see us soulless crims tortured and killed. Then, after a while, I just chalked it up to insanity, like everyone else. Then you came along, Fenix, and I realized what Glasgow's favourite victims all have in common." He flashed an imperceptible smile. "Looks like Glasgow can't stand a criminal with an actual heart."

The wake up buzzer blared through the hall, catching both of them off-guard. For the first time, Boston had completely forgotten the notion of leg-stretching and food. He shared a final look with Fenix, then turned away to the backs of their cells.

The dull thunder of guard boots on metal grating approached. Within minutes, Boston and Fenix were roughly shackled–the former yelping shamelessly when his injured arm was wrenched into his cuffs–and paraded out into the dark corridors to begin their slow trek to the mess hall for breakfast. They slunk past the emptying cells, all in one long chain escorted by a pack of swaggering guards. Since the incident in the Yard, security appeared to have been cinched up, and the entire trip down to the hall was as silent and orderly as Boston had ever seen.

Strange then that, as they came to a halt before the hall's double doors and waited to be allowed in, Fenix was the first to break the imperious quiet. In his usual place in front of Boston in their chained line, the ex-Gear craned his neck around, though his gaze was drifting.

"There's just one thing I can't figure out, Boz." His voice was a sandpaper whisper, too low for the guards to catch. "Why _didn't_ you and Cross finish me off?"

Boston blinked at the back of his blockmate's head. At once, his mind went a bit fuzzy with the thousand possible answers. Only a fraction of them were the truth, but quite frankly, Boston decided he was all confessed out for the day. He merely shrugged and heaved a bemused sigh.

"...Call it a long term investment."

There was a pause. "Normal people have a word for that, you know," Fenix replied at length.

"Oh yeah? And what would that be?"

Fenix raised his chin slightly, eyes squinting like he was studying something very far away. "_Solidarity_."

"Well, I just call it a mild reluctance to kill."

The ex-soldier snorted.

"Same thing."

The doors swung open to reveal the starkly lit mess hall, the long screech of steel on grimy tile drawing the attention of the nearest seated inmates. The men of Block 38 filed out through the maze of tables and benches, pointed resolutely at their assigned seats, but there was something different in the air this morning. Many of the surrounding men had eyes on Fenix, and no one else. As the ex-Gear trudged past Block 12's table, the nearest prisoner twisted around and flashed a cagey smile.

"Hey, killer."

The word sent a ripple through the surrounding tables; the more Boston glanced around, the more he realized how quickly they were gaining the attention of the entire room. Suddenly, one of the taller inmates leaned out and slapped Fenix on the back like they'd been friends since grade school.

"There he is! GX: man of the fuckin' hour."

The guards along the walls shifted in their posts, their apprehension tangible. Face utterly blank, Fenix hunched up in an attempt to stave off the attention, but a second cry went up, this time several tables away. It was the final push to an avalanche of voices. "Lookie here! _Cross' killer!_"

"Murdered a serial murderer, eh?" cooed another. "And with the battle scars to prove it."

"Tore him apart with his bare hands, I heard!"

"The mad dog himself!"

"Fuck yeah, Mad Dog!"

The hall erupted in shouts of crude approval at the moniker, and in an exact reenactment of the night before in the Yard, a chant picked up.

"Mad Dog! Mad Dog! Mad Dog!"

Fenix froze over, unable or unwilling to move amid the rising chaos. Something grabbed Boston from behind and shoved him forward in an attempt to break through the now raucous room of inmates, but there was suddenly nowhere to go.

"Shut up! _Shut up!_ Everyone sit down and SHUT UP!" The old Jailor's craggy voice was suddenly right in Boston's ear, echoing similar orders from the other guards, but the cries of the hall snuffed it completely.

Boston's heart hammered at the dramatic scene; a mess hall full of inmates, all thumping and chanting, clamouring for their new alpha, slapping him on the back and spitting on Cross' name. It was a rush. The heady view, three-hundred sixty degrees of rabid cheering criminals, was nearly impossible to tear away from, but he managed to steal a sidelong glance at his blockmate.

_"Mad Dog! Mad Dog!"_

The look on Fenix's beat-up face was not triumphant; far from it. As he stood motionless amid his new pack of sneering, guffawing, hooting fans, it was clear that whatever embers of hope the ex-soldier had kept alive had been kicked through and stomped out. Now, his pale eyes were just empty, and he looked the closest to giving up Boston had seen since he'd first been thrown to them.


	12. 11: Mercy

**11  
>[mercy]<strong>

_I might be better off closing my eyes,  
>and God will come looking for me...<em>

Pain. Deep, thrumming; like his veins were shrivelling up in his arms. He felt it with every stretch of his itchy skin, every breath filtered through his brittle lungs.

Thirty days, seven hours, and nineteen minutes since the warden's last fix.

He slunk through the long corridor, one shoulder scuffing along the wall as he went. It felt different now than it had during the first weeks of medication rationing: this was a grey pain. It had been red before–hot, angry, indomitable–but now it was grey. A slow, withering ache. The gradual gnaw of withdrawal and decay.

There were white numbers spray-painted onto the brick beside every door he crept by. After passing thirty-seven locked doors, the warden halted before the third last one: this was his destination. At his boots, four ink-black paws paced around anxiously, not understanding why they'd stopped, but waiting loyally all the same.

"Not much longer, pretty girl. Not much longer at all."

The two guards at the door must have heard his scuffling approach; their haggard eyes watched his every move. They were thick, hulking bears of men, but if Glasgow so much as blinked too fast, they flinched like they'd been struck. The stumpier of the two cleared his throat, then reached up to touch the rim of his faded olive cap.

"Evening, sir...What can we do for you?"

Glasgow simply reached into his jacket pocket and procured a worn pass card. As he gave it to the guard to be scanned, his glanced down: the black sleeve of his jacket was rolled up to his elbow, exposing his arm. The veins looked as dead as they felt; tiny riverworks of tar running through soft, sore flesh. He stood with his arm extended before him, staring, then blinked, and realized the black veins had simply disappeared. His arm was pale and clean as ever, if a bit sallow from the over-bright halogens...

Bethsheva grumbled, impatient with their progress thus far, and the guard hurried to swipe the card through the grimy console in the wall. Yes, dear Beth had always been the focused one. No tolerance for tardiness. Finally, the guard passed the card back to its owner, careful to give the hound a wide berth as he did so.

"Go right in, sir." The guard coughed shallowly. "You...look tired, sir. Maybe...maybe you should take a rest sometime."

The warden stared. Tired? He looked _tired?_ No no no, that meant he looked like a _mess_. He blinked. A mess, a mess: _tsk, what would mother say_. It wouldn't do. His hands shot to his head, furiously palming down the stray hairs until they laid flat against his scalp. The guards had locked blank stares on him, but he didn't care. He exhaled, calmed for the moment, then quickly replaced the card in his pocket, fingers slightly slippery with the grease from his hair.

Saying absolutely nothing, the dual guards pushed back on the door handles. With a plaintive groan, the slabs of iron heaved back to reveal the rows upon rows of rusting cages, and Glasgow entered Block 38. He had been quiet, he thought, but the closest inmates still jumped as he and his pet slid by. Some shuffled away from the bars, others cursed and whispered to their neighbours. The words were too thin to hear, but they followed the warden on his path down the block, relaying rapidly from convict to convict.

So Fenix was a changed man: that's what the rumours were hissing. But Glasgow knew they had it all wrong; the Slab had changed around Fenix. He'd slaughtered the most feared member of their grotesque family, and that had actually _awed_ the little worthless cockroaches. Now they loved him. Or maybe they only feared him. The latter was far more powerful, the warden knew.

They even had a nickname for him, he had heard. _Mad Dog_. He grinned; very catchy. Very _apt_.

Before he knew it, the warden found himself approaching his goal. He slowed, then stopped before the newly infamous cell, number 1000, and clasped his hands neatly behind his back.

"Hello, Fenix."

The glow of the ceiling lamps did not penetrate the solid gloom behind the bars; Glasgow squinted, but the cell's occupant remained safe in the shadows. Then, there was a near-silent shifting, the rasp of coveralls on cot metal, and then a tall figure emerged from out of the dark. Some time had passed since the dog known as Cross had been put down, but not enough to completely heal the wounds Fenix had received during the scrap. He held his arm stiffly, like he'd pulled a muscle or two; and his face, while no longer a raw mess of swelling and blood, was still marred by the ghosts of bruises. The flesh was probably still quite tender to the touch, Glasgow mused...

The ex-soldier took a single step forward, eyes glinting like those of a stray animal caught out in an alleyway.

"What do you want."

It certainly wasn't a question; the warden recognized a thinly veiled warning to _fuck off_ when he heard one. He just chuckled. Sometimes, convicts got it in their heads that they were bigger than their warden; tougher. Of course, all it took was one wayward snarl from his dear Bethsheva to remind them of just how pathetically low on the Slab food chain they were. Glasgow snapped his fingers, down low by his thigh, and the black hound heeled obediently.

"I suppose I'm here with to make a...trade of sorts," the warden explained, pleased by the way Fenix's eyes narrowed nervously down at Bethsheva.

The prisoner sniffed. "Trade," he repeated quietly, though his gaze remained transfixed on the bitch.

At this, Glasgow reached into his utility belt with both hands, then simultaneously revealed his two trump cards. In his right hand, two envelopes, slightly worn and curled, and in his left, a small, sturdy switchblade. He held the artifacts aloft, arms extended like scales for the ex-Gear to witness.

"It's been quite a while, hasn't it, Mad Dog?"

Fenix raised his heavily stubbled chin, but remained perfectly silent. At least that part of the rumours ran true; the ex-soldier had grown up, and the slight curl of his lip said he was no longer new to these lovely, twisted games. Yet even with his newfound mask of grim acceptance, there was no way to hide the flicker in his pallid eyes: after all he'd been through, it was clear the letters were still a sharp kick to his teeth. Glasgow _tsk_ed inwardly at the prisoner's predictability.

However, Fenix must have pulled himself back into his old realm of non-emotion, because he suddenly cocked a caustic brow.

"A 'trade' involving a psychopath with a knife? Now you're just insulting my intelligence."

Not feeling particularly pressed to reply, Glasgow stepped up close to the cell. Lips parted slightly, he dragged the blade against the cage door, its clean edge scraping and squealing on the metal. The sound made his molars tingle and Bethsheva whine loudly, but he relished it all the same.

"It's not a question of intelligence, boy..." He snaked his hand into the cell, presenting the letters fully. He made sure Fenix could read the elegant signature on the fronts. "It's a question of faith."

He gave the envelopes an inviting shake. It was surreal; a simple gesture that would look normal anywhere else on Sera, but here, it made the air crackle with danger. Bethsheva began to pace restlessly at her master's feet.

"Go on," the warden purred. "_Take them_."

"Oh fuck, Fenix. _No_."

Glasgow tore his gaze from the ex-soldier: another prisoner was at the edge of his cell, bandaged arm hooked around the bars. He looked scared. However, the unease in those eyes made them familiar to Glasgow, and he smiled.

"This doesn't concern you, Boston."

Boston flinched, then began to shake his head miserably. He mouthed a last _"fuck no"_ to Fenix, then pulled back into his cot.

Frozen, Fenix was still eyeing the envelopes like they were packed full of C-4.

He finally glanced up. "Been keeping 'em all for yourself, psycho?"

"Is that what you think I'm doing? Has it never occurred to you that the drought is simply due to the fact that there's just no one to write them anymore?" Glasgow gave a delighted gasp. "Didn't you _hear?_"

"...What the hell are—"

"No one told you? Ephyra was lost _months_ ago, Fenix." The skin of the warden's face pulled and puckered as his scars warped into a mock frown. "Right around the time Boston stopped finding letters for you, in fact."

At long last, something seemed to snip at Fenix's heartstrings. His acid blue eyes widened a hair, his neck muscles tensed, and his jaw began to work back and forth. The signs were nearly imperceptible, but to the warden, they shrieked of weakness. Glasgow was ecstatic.

"Now, I could be wrong," he said gently. "But I imagine it would have been easy for a poor, defenseless woman to be caught by the advancing Locust horde, maybe even sleeping, totally unaware..."

"Shut your fuckin' mouth," Fenix murmured in gravelly tones, nostrils flaring and fists curled. Bethsheva's pacing increased.

"My, what a _tragic_ thought: Mad Dog's darling beloved, laying face-down in a pool of her own blood."

An animal snarl erupted from the ex-soldier, and he stepped out of the gloom. Glasgow laughed.

"Then _take the letters!_ They might be the last thing Stroud ever wrote."

Glasgow knew it had been just the right thing to say before he even finished; Fenix made a grab for the letters.

However, the cornered man had evidently forgotten that this was a _trade_.

Like vibrations on a spider's web, Glasgow felt the prisoner's fingers brush the envelopes, and his reflexes jumped. His switchblade flashed over Fenix's bare knuckles, and there was no mistaking the glorious sensation of flesh giving way to honed steel.

_Yes_.

Grunting, Fenix recoiled his hand–both envelopes firmly clasped between the bleeding fingers–as the tang of copper permeated the musty air. Glasgow couldn't hold in his triumphant chuckle. The inmate cupped his injured hand, but the cuts were superficial, and he hardly seemed surprised by the warden's little trick. In the cell's corner, Boston was losing his mind.

"Holy shit, holy _shit_..."

"The cut's not very deep, Fenix," Glasgow articulated, holding the blade in the light so he could inspect his bloody prize. He moistened his dry lips. "And I think you'll find the stinging to be more than manageable. A small price to pay, then, no?"

Suddenly, Bethsheva halted in her pacing. Her hackles rose, sightless eyes staring into the gloom. A quiet growl began to trickle through her crimson-stained fangs.

_Good girl, Beth. Such a good, smart girl._ Glasgow laughed, loud and hearty. "What do you know, Fenix...I think she likes the way you smell."

No sooner had the words dripped from his lips, the hound exploded, barking and gnashing and throwing herself into the cell door. Instantly, Fenix jumped back to join Boston at the back wall; they both stood there, paralyzed by the raw violence on display before them. The blind bitch was practically trying to smash her body in between the bars in an attempt to sate her primal hunger.

"Beth, darling. That's quite enough."

The huge dog barely twitched an ear towards her master's voice; he then brought the switchblade down to her nose level, and she paused for a scant moment before whirling around. Black muscles trembling, Bethsheva snapped at the knife, gnawing the blade and licking Fenix's blood up. If her leathery gums were being sliced up by the razor edge, she gave no sign.

"There _are_ more letters, you know." Glasgow didn't bother to glance up at his prisoner; the sound of his ragged breath was proof enough that the exchange had been successful. "Even if she _is_ laying dead in the streets, I've accumulated quite the collection from the past months. I'll be back next week, and you can decide if you want them or not. Just like you did today.

"Because it's up to you." The warden watched his pet as she lapped up the last droplets, finally having had her fill. But it had only been enough to calm her for a while, Glasgow knew; next week, there'd have to be more blood. He reminded himself to cut a little deeper.

"I mean it, Fenix. All you have to do next time is ignore me. And I'll leave, take my dog with me, and I'll burn Miss Stroud's pesky letters so you don't have to think about her anymore."

At last, Glasgow sheathed the knife and shot one last look into the cold shadows of the cell. "What do you say to that, Mad Dog?"

Judging by the silhouette, the ex-soldier was still cradling his letters, as well as the bloodied hand he bought them with. Then his glacial eyes snapped up, and he curled his lip.

"Then I guess I'll see you next fuckin' week."

The warden grinned; it seemed Fenix's nickname was more fitting than he knew.

With a final snap of his fingers, Glasgow was away, his sweet, dark hound at his heels. As he left cell 1000 behind him, he could hear the frantic hisses of Boston's panicking. However, Fenix wasn't replying.

The day had been a tremendous victory, the warden knew. Fenix had demanded him–and the letters–back next week, and Glasgow wouldn't dare disappoint him. Not only had their little mutually beneficial transaction been completed, dear Bethsheva had also gotten a lovely treat for herself. With a rush, he realized that his own pains of withdrawal had been abated as well; it seemed the spilling of Gear blood was a little more thrilling than Glasgow had anticipated.

But he knew better than to play too roughly with his toys; break them early, and the fun would be over. He would be patient this time, more than he'd been with the others. There would be no more help from the craftier prisoners, no more double-dealings. Now that he'd taken matters into his own trembling hands, it felt better than he'd ever hoped for, and the rush of it was almost enough to make him forget about his aching addiction.

He glanced down at his watch: thirty days, seven hours, and thirty-six minutes, now.

Almost.

In his mind, Glasgow thought of the feeling of his blade slicing through Fenix's skin; if he couldn't have his meds, then this would have to do. He strode back down through the block and replayed the exact moment over and over again like an old film clip, humming softly to Bethsheva as went.


	13. 12: In Your Honour

**12  
>[in your honour]<strong>

_I can see myself;  
>I look peaceful and pale.<em>

For the first time in months, the Slab's surly guards didn't have to threaten the inmates with grievous bodily harm to get them out into the Yard for their mandatory exercise hours. Thaw had come, and the freezing concrete wasteland had once again become somewhat livable. But while the temperatures had finally begun to hover above freezing, the lethargy of winter still had a grip on the prisoners; a fact that was especially true for Boston. In the shadow of the high guard walls, he sat with arms and legs crossed, an apathetic glare sent off into space.

"Just out of curiosity," he meandered. "Which ones hurt the _least?_"

Boston didn't have to look over at the nearby bench to know what Fenix was doing. The ex-soldier was leaning over his newest letter, trying to balance the delicate paper on one knee as he read. In the months since the very first so-called _exchange_, he'd mastered the art of opening and reading his lieutenant's letters without bleeding all over them. He clearly wasn't in a conversational mood, but after several seconds of silent reading, he grunted.

"They all hurt the same."

Fenix had tugged his sleeves down over his arms, but Boston could still see his hands, heavily bandaged and crusty with old, brown blood. And he knew the evidence of the man's sacrifice didn't stop there. Several weeks in, when Fenix's knuckles were getting too thick with scabs for the switchblade to bite through, Glasgow began moving up, each week slicing his knife a little higher on the prisoner's arms. Now, the prisoner was covered from wrist to elbow with thin red criss-crosses. Boston thought they made him look like a complete psycho.

"And where did he get you today?" he enquired cheerfully. Recently, Boston had taken to treating it all like one big inane comedy act. Because acknowledging the unadulterated brutality and torture that was slowly closing in on them was too damn hard.

The letter crackled in the dry spring wind; Fenix flattened it with his forearm and squinted at the tightly scrawled words. "Left elbow," was his absent reply, triggering a mild wince in Boston. Just the thought of a mere paper cut in his sensitive elbow made him want to gag, let alone a swipe from a blade. True to Glasgow's words, the wounds were typically shallow and dealt no serious damage, but it was clear the warden had long ago lost his mind: what was keeping him from actually slitting Fenix's wrist one day?

All this thinking about pain made Boston's own wrist throb. He looked down to his lap where he cradled his injured hand and turned it gingerly for observation. Miraculously, Fenix's original splint had managed to stay fairly tight over the months, and after a while of following his orders to not fuck with it, the broken bones seemed to have set surprisingly well. Because of that, Boston had been able to tear off small strips of the bandages—and give back them to Fenix. The ex-Gear needed them now more anyways.

Giving his wrist an experimental—and nearly painless—flex, Boston dropped it back into his lap and sighed. "Think you'll have scars? A little something to remember your stay in the Slab by?"

"Only on the knuckles," Fenix said matter-of-factly, still never bothering to look up. It was hard to tell, but it seemed like, even in spite of the new form of abuse at the hands of Glasgow, Fenix was breathing a little easier too. Maybe it was because of his bizarre status—everyone gave the supposed Mad Dog a wide berth these days, even out here in the cut-throat Yard—but Boston wasn't sure he bought into that. Maybe, he realized, it was because after more than a year of wild scrapping and volatile relationships, Fenix finally had a solid give-and-take deal to wrap his head around; some measure of control, no matter how frail, and no matter how costly.

A mild silence threatened to settle as Fenix turned his letter over carefully, but Boston coughed before it could lay on too thick. He would be damned if he let the man read through it for a fourth time today.

"Tell me about her."

It worked; Fenix slowly tore himself from the inked lines and transfixed a blank stare on his blockmate. "Who?" The reply was hardly more than a throat rumble.

"Don't be dense. Your lady. Anya."

Stark blue eyes remained locked on Boston, but then they blinked, and fell back to the paper before them. "I told you," Fenix growled idly. "She's not my anything."

"No, you told me you weren't fucking her." Boston shrugged, undaunted. "Clearly not the same thing."

"You really need to learn when to shut up, Boz."

Boston rolled his eyes. "Bitch, look at you," he grumbled, ignoring Fenix's slightly bewildered expression. "Can you even _move_ your fingers? Come on, you're practically sawing off limbs for her goddamn letters here. You might as well tell me what colour her eyes are. _Something_."

Another thick chunk of silence. Boston swore inwardly at his blockmate's stubbornness, then scrambled haughtily around on the concrete in an attempt to get back on his feet. The other prisoners might have been less affable, but fuck if Boston was going to sit here and waste a nice Thaw day watching a forlorn ex-soldier cry over some bitch's letter. Hell, even getting beaten on was more interesting than—

"...Green."

The word was short and stupid-sounding, but enough to make Boston halt on one knee.

"Yeah?"

"Well...hell, I don't know. No, not really _green_." Fenix's frown was audible. "They...kind of have a brownish tinge, I guess...Earthy green."

It was evident that the man didn't spend a lot of time describing the quality of women's eyes. Boston held back a chortle, and slumped back down in his warm place on the cement.

"I see," he said slowly, like they were contemplating the existence of the universe. "And do I finally get to know what colour her hair is?"

The ex-soldier scrutinized him from the corner of his eye for a moment, then sighed. "Blonde...Usually puts it up."

Blissfully, that perfect image of a woman Boston had in his head was completed, and he shot a devilish smile back. "Damn. Sounds like a bombshell."

Yeah, that was probably too far, but if Fenix didn't like it, he could shove it. Biting his lip, Boston waited patiently for the retaliating venom, but none came.

"She's..." Leaning forward in the bench, Fenix cleared his throat quietly and rested his tender elbows on his knees. "A good lieutenant."

Boston snorted. _Oh yeah, definitely a bombshell_. All joking aside, though, he couldn't help but feel a bit astonished at how long the spark of conversation had lived. Everyone had their doors to be pried open, but when it came to Fenix, those doors were triple-bolted bank vaults. The ex-soldier was gazing out at the open Yard, rubbing his mouth absently. Apparently, the topic of recent discussion still had a hold on him.

"She made it out okay," Fenix stated plainly, nodding back down at his letter. "When the COG lost Ephyra, she made it out; Dom did too."

It was an odd tone for the man, and seeing as it wasn't scathing sarcasm or brooding silence, Boston had a hard time placing it.

"...Is she seriously going to wait for you?"

"If I've done my job, she thinks I'm already dead."

The reply was even and lead-coated, like the words were a well-known motto Fenix had adopted since his incarceration. A grim outlook from Fenix was hardly surprising, but for some reason, the emotionless resolve in his voice was an unexpected slap in the face. Boston raised an incredulous brow at the ex-Gear's hunched form. "At least she cares enough to waste two sheets of paper a week on you."

At that, Fenix hesitated, as if debating whether or not that was a good thing. It was infuriating.

"Fuck you, Fenix. At least you _have_ her," Boston snapped quietly, crafting each word to pierce to the core. "Do you have any idea what I would give to have a girl waiting for me out there?"

A muscle in Fenix's jaw jumped, but that was literally the only reaction the ex-soldier would relent. He wore the unreadable mask of a man before the noose; head shaking imperceptibly, he set to carefully folding Anya's letter, matching up the worn creases. "Moot point, Boston," he said calmly. "Leave it."

Boston's nostrils flared, already aggravated by the slipping conversation.

"Shit, can't you tell the damn girl's in lo—"

"I said..." Fenix rumbled just as evenly, eyes drifting placidly over the Yard. "_Leave_ it."

The debris of dust and leaves scraped over the concrete as a chilled wind swirled in, a remnant of the dying winter. Fenix's letter suddenly fluttered out of his ginger grasp; in an instant, his hand struck out like a shot to snatch it before it was blown free, but the quick movement made him hiss and swear at his injured elbow. He clamped down on the fresh cuts, as if he could dam up the pain like a leaking faucet.

"Sooner or later, a little nick isn't going to keep him happy. You know." Boston sighed grimly, reluctantly turning to a new topic of conversation. In the back of his brain, he wondered why he no longer took satisfaction in a fellow prisoner's suffering. "That fucking brave face you put on isn't helping things, either."

Fenix only glared back, but there was no denying the cold facts; every week, the cuts got a little higher, the blade digging just a little deeper. And afterwards, when the warden and his teeth-licking mutt had gone, it took longer and longer to staunch the bleeding. No matter what false semblance of security Fenix had been savouring, he could no longer ignore that things were steadily escalating out of his tiny sphere of control. And in this game, there was no telling how expensive the final cost would be.

Boston watched his blockmate, eyes tracing over the lines of familiar stubbornness that deepened all over Fenix's face. He leaned forward then, so that only the ex-soldier could hear.

"Listen to me, will you? Violence is like a drug to that sick fuck. Glasgow got his meds taken away, so this is how he's getting his fix. Just like all the times before. But now you're fucking it up, and I'm telling you, _you're going to pay for it._"

Fenix just stared, frozen in his place on the bench.

"And you _still_ don't get it," Boston spat, enraged by the ex-soldier's naivety. "He's losing it, man. Every goddamn day, he gets a bit crazier, a bit more sadistic. He needs to see the pain, to hear the screams: it's how he gets his rocks off when the happy pills go away. And you, Marcus fucking Fenix, are not giving him what he wants. Not anymore."

Fenix rolled his eyes, then hoisted himself up to his feet. "That's been the idea so far, asshole. What the hell is wrong with that?"

A buzzer ripped through the Yard, its crass and ragged wail echoing along the walls. The inmates were lazy in their return, taking their time with raking up their card games and crushing out their bartered cigs. The thought of the dank, sunless dungeons that awaited them made Boston just as lazy. He was slow to clamber up from the ground, stretching languidly like an overfed cat. He exchanged glances with the ex-soldier, and they both ambled back to the opening Slab doors.

"Think about it, Fenix." Boston said, one last reproach mumbled from the corner of his mouth. "What do addicts do when their drugs aren't getting them to that high anymore?"

Fenix stowed his letter carefully up his sleeve, then blew a little groaning breath. "Can't say I'm the expert on fuckin' drug addiction, Boston."

Instinctively, their voices lowered as the Slab's dull brick walls loomed closer. They brought up the rear of the incoming herd of prisoners, shuffling into their disorganized lines as they waited to be led back to the darkness.

"Then I'll tell you." Boston turned and squinted up at the sun, soaking up every last photon of the precious, pale rays. "They up the dosage."

* * *

><p>A metal door thundered open against a wall, and the sound cracked like a gunshot through Boston's skull, flinging him out of his numbing sleep.<p>

Eyes heavy and brain chugging, the prisoner rolled clumsily up from his cot and wrapped his arms around himself. He was becoming increasingly aware of the unusually loud voices that reverberated down the metal-panelled prison block.

He blew a long, hard breath through his nose, like he could just exhale the sleepiness directly. "F...Fenix, what's..."

"Guards," came the sharp reply. The ex-soldier must have been sleeping too, but it was clear he'd shaken the cotton of slumber from his head much faster than Boston.

"What?" Boston blinked, but the shadows in Block 38 were as thick and impenetrable as ever. He wondered why no one had powered the lights up yet. "But Glasgow was here yesterday."

"I said _guards_, dumbass." In spite of the approaching clank of boots on grated floors, Fenix was whispering. Boston could see him from the corner of his bleary eye; he was a curled silhouette, one heel perched on the rim of his cot, the other planted firmly on the cement. He tilted his head to the side, perhaps in an effort to make out what the rough voices were growling. Boston thought he could practically hear the prisoner's neck muscles tightening apprehensively.

The echoes and deep gloom distorted sound and sight. The voices dropped off completely, and then several faceless figures were right outside the cell doors. There was a clatter of tumbling keys and locks; Fenix snarled and took a solid stance, like a boxer in his final round. They must have seen the stormy gleam of self-preservation in the ex-soldier's eyes, because the guards seemed to balk at the door. One of the taller figures cursed and hissed something about the warden, and like steel to flint, the name struck the men into determined action.

Boston had been so enamoured by the almost dream-like scene unfolding in the cell next to him that he hardly noticed that he had accumulated some unwelcome visitors of his own. He heard the grunts and scrambling of Fenix's instant struggle, but the sudden shrieking of the barred door reminded him sharply that he had his own problems.

"N-no! What does Glasgow want? What did we _do?_"

He sheltered in the shadows, like their hard darkness could somehow form a real barrier, but the guards weren't nearly as nervy about entering Boston's cell, and they swooped in with their rusted cuffs and grappling hands. Arms, rough and impatient, pinned him; he kicked and scrabbled, ineffectual as a panicked rabbit. They tore him from the pathetic sanctuary of his cot, and the cell entrance loomed before him, promising a night of horror and pain if he passed its grime-smeared threshold. Before he could cry out in desperation, beg for mercy, _anything_, something heavy smashed into the back of his head, and the cell was swallowed by a tidal wave of blackness.

An instant later, and he opened his eyes to unfamiliar tiled floors gliding under him. His feet dragged like gutted fish behind him, and something warm was trickling down behind his right ear. He watched the tiles flow by, seeing the dirty grout and cracks in ultra high definition.

No, this floor wasn't unfamiliar, Boston's hazy brain realized. _It's just been a long, long time_.

_God, please, no_.

Other than the occasional squeal of his boot rubber on the ceramic, the only sound was that of the guards' breathing, laboured by the effort of hauling Boston's dead weight down the hall. Fenix was no longer fighting back, but Boston knew he had to be close.

Time stretched on like the endless tiles and hallway, but an eternity later, they stopped, and the whine of old doors peeled through the relative silence. There were other voices; quieter, colder, and then the guards continued in. The tiles in this new room were just as dirty, but now, the smears were a bright, vibrant red: the colour of life. The colour of suffering.

_Please, please, please_.

With a pair of sudden grunts and a damaging yank on Boston's aching shoulders, he was heaved up from the floor to slam down on something hard and cold. His head lulled feverishly. Cracking his eyes, he saw the dull gleam of a steel table top, and beyond that, blurred walls of sickly white. A figure in a grey lab coat ambled silently by; not one of the guards, but someone much, much worse. Every instinct was screaming at Boston to flee, every nerve on his useless limbs tingling with the electricity of fear. But he was paralyzed, helpless to watch as they hauled what could only be Fenix up onto the steel table beside Boston. Like a breath of wind, the voices rose for a few moments, then fell dead once again.

Something jingled in the clinical quiet; an unseen force wrenched each of his hands to the top corners of the table, then his feet down to the bottom. Attempting to pull them back would have proven them to be shackled in place, but Boston already knew that. Fenix did too, but when the same clink of chains echoed over at his table, the ex-soldier fought back. They must have clubbed him like they had Boston, because his efforts were silent and uncharacteristically weak. His muscled mass writhed on the table top, clawing at the surrounding lab coats as if he was winding up a punch, but the guards fell upon him, and their thick arms held him steady like a bull for branding.

The shackles were soon in place, and while Fenix didn't give up, the guards melted away. Their part was done, Boston thought with a miserable lurch. It was all up to the lab coats now; this was their domain. This was chem shock.

"The usual?" enquired a horribly calm, sterile voice.

"No," replied another, this time right by Boston's head. "The warden's given us complete experimental freedom with these ones."

"Excellent."

A cabinet door screeched open, and a tray was wheeled into Boston's fading vision. He wanted to vomit.

"The warden had only one request," the voice nearest Boston said conversationally.

"Oh?"

A blue-gloved hand reached into the tray, but Boston screwed his eyes shut before he saw what it retrieved. Just metres away, Fenix growled and groaned fruitlessly; he suddenly sounded like he had something wedged between his teeth.

"Keep yours conscious. No matter what."


	14. 13: And Bare Your Teeth

**13  
>[and bare your teeth]<strong>

_But underneath  
>I can barely inhale.<em>

Cruelly, Boston was hurtled back into consciousness.

His ears screamed. His back arched. His left eye socket fucking _seared_. The pain was impossible. Desperately, his brain shrieked at him, begging him to breathe, but his lungs spasmed and burned as he found his airway was somehow choked off. Instead of taking in that all-important gulp of oxygen, he only gurgled and gasped breathlessly.

"Spit."

The deep voice sounded like a poorly tuned radio station to Boston; he fought again for that first breath, but it never came. Copper seeped down his throat. Distantly, his mind registered something like _panic_.

"Shit, Boston, _listen to me_. You need to _spit_."

The words, urgent and authoritative, finally worked their way into Boston's buzzing brain; with a spine-wrenching effort, he spat out a mouthful of half-congealed blood, then coughed out several more. At last, he sucked down a breath.

"Good. Now calm down. Keep breathing...There you go."

Sweet, sweet oxygen rushed steadily into Boston's blood-slicked lungs, and he grasped blindly at the cold table beneath him; his shackles had been unlocked. Agony drilled like screws into every facet of bone, every shred of muscle, but the pain in his eye pushed everything aside, made his brain blink in and out. Eyes clenched tight, he allowed a whimpering moan to pour out over his cracked lips.

Something began ripping the tape and IVs from his arms. He felt a hand on his shoulder, but he flinched it violently away.

"D-don't t-touch me—"

"Can you move?"

_No, no. Can't. Don't want to. Leave me alone. Just leave me._

Thoughts became impossible to form after that; wave after wave of excruciating pain assaulted his already weak grip on consciousness. _What did they do? What the _fuck_ did they do?_ Then he felt it: the horrible, uncontrollable spasms bursting up between his sinews. The twitching began.

"We have to get out of here, Boston." It was Fenix's voice, _somehow_, but it was muffled, like he had a cheek full of cotton. "You were out for hours; it's only a matter of time until someone notices the docs are missing..."

"What...what did they..."

Boston heard Fenix begin to reply, but the man bit back the words. Suddenly alarmed, Boston clumsily attempted to check himself for the signs. Did they drill through his temples? _No, no blood._ His spine? _No..._

The pain in his body suddenly paled in comparison to the atom bomb of hot agony that went off in his left eye.

Shaking, he willed his lids to open, and was met with a blurry view of the gruesome chem lab, its rust-streaked walls spinning and rolling in on themselves. But he could only see one half of the starkly-lit lab: an impenetrable chunk of blackness loomed to the left side of his suddenly limited vision. All at once, the horrific truth dawned on Boston's chemical-drenched brain.

_No, no, no, God, no..._

His fingers just barely brushed the blood-encrusted socket; instantly, he flinched at the horrible physical realization of the _emptiness_ there.

"My eye," he choked wrathfully. "My fucking_ eye_."

Again, Fenix hesitated.

"Try not to think about it, Boz. You have to—"

"Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_..." Despair burst within Boston's heart; slowly, the inmate curled up on the table and wished he could return to the sweet unconscious. But before he could close his eyes–_eye_–to the nightmare beyond, a hand emerged from out of his blind spot and gripped him roughly by the shoulder.

"God_ damn _it, Boston, you have to stay with me. _Can you move?_"

"W-what...where are we going...fuck!"

Boston suddenly felt himself being dragged bodily from his place on the operation table. Sliding over the edge, he was hauled halfway to his feet, but his legs refused to hold him, and he collapsed to the red-stained tiles. His body was just too weak, his muscles too wrecked from injected chemicals...

"Fuck, Boz, come on! We're running out of _time_. You have to get up. _Now_."

"I can't. I can't." Boston was almost sobbing. The pain threatened to pitch him back to the unfeeling darkness. "Just go. L-leave me."

His eyes fluttered open, and he found himself staring at an unfamiliar man laying on the floor. It was one of the labcoats; Boston couldn't tell if he was knocked out or dead. Then, the mystifying scene disappeared as Fenix dropped to one knee before him, brows furrowed with resolve. Alarmingly, his mouth, chin, and neck were painted red. It looked like the ex-soldier had been throwing up blood for hours.

"That's not happening," he said slowly through a clenched jaw. "We have to get out of here, and we're damn well doing it together."

Beneath the tide of pain, Boston somehow discovered a current of threadbare anger.

"My f-f-fucking eye is gone. _Gone_," he hissed. "And w-what did they do to you? You're _fine_."

The rebuke rocked Fenix back on his heels, his eyes steeling over. He inhaled deeply, then nodded over to the nearby steel-top counter. Boston followed the gesture to a single jar half-filled with murky pink water; inside, three little bits of something white had sunk to the jar's bottom. It took several seconds of squinting before he recognized the chunks: they were teeth.

Repulsed, Boston glanced quickly back at Fenix, understanding now the stream of blood caked over his chin. The ex-soldier's iron expression never flickered.

"Just be thankful they let you pass out halfway through," came the simple reproach. "Now if we're done swapping sob stories, let's get a goddamn move on, please."

Fenix hooked Boston's shoulder like he was going to try to reel him back to his feet again, but Boston's bones shook out of his grip.

"No...no...it's over..." Words were no longer forming cohesively in his brain as he began to give into the agony. His vision fogged, and he swayed on aching knees. "No. They'll take us back to our cells. If we stay...They'll take us...take us—"

A sharp strike across his cheek sent Boston reeling, but an unyielding hand snatched his collar before he fell and yanked him forward. And then he was eye-to-eye with Fenix; the larger man had a face like thunder.

"_Pull your shit together, Boston_. This is far from fucking over. They'll be back, and I can guarantee you we won't be as lucky the second time. We stay, _we die_. Do you understand that?"

The slap to the face was a new and unwelcome pain, but the sting cleared some of the haze from the edges of Boston's mind. Yes, he understood. Everything made perfect sense. His lips wanted to stay crushed together in a tight line, but he ordered the jerking muscles in his face to move.

"Th-then we die."

"_What the fuck are you talking about?_" Fenix was furious. "You're not going to just lay here and wait for them to come back and slit your goddamn thr—"

"Why not?" Boston growled, pushing his blockmate away with what little strength he had. "What the hell is the p-point? It's fucking _hopeless_. We're going to die anyways. If not in here, then rotting away in the cells, or beaten to a pulp in the Yard...W-we can't escape it." He swallowed, dry eyes blinking slowly. "_You_ can't escape it."

For a long, silent moment, the two men only stared at each other, quieted by the inevitable truth of Boston's words. Then, Fenix rose to his feet.

Briefly, Boston thought Fenix was actually going to abandon him, but he just stood there, hands loose and bloodied jaw relaxed. Slowly, his gaze shifted around the claustrophobic lab. Even as he took in the bleak scene that surrounded them–the belted chairs, the surgical tables, the swinging chains, the sickness and the syringes and the blood–there was something wistful in those eyes. Something human. He watched the tiny world he was locked within with the same silent acceptance of a near-blind man watching his last sunset.

"Hopeless. Yeah..." Fenix rumbled, a ripple in the quiet. "Yeah, I'm probably going to die in here, Boston. Just like you. But I'm sure as hell not going in fuckin' _chains_." The man rolled his wrists, the skin raw from the tight cuffs, and the weary joints popped in the electric air. "Gears die on their feet."

Boston was incapable of anything but a slow, unblinking stare. But inside, he could feel something churning, snaking in on itself completely, and for once, it didn't hurt like hell. God knew Boston didn't deserve this; in the face of this soldier's resolve, his unflinching honour, he was just so fucking_ unworthy_. They all were, and that's why they hated him so viciously. But here he was, refusing to give in, refusing to leave Boston behind. Unbroken.

Boston had a change of heart.

Fenix watched from the corner of his eye as Boston brought up one knee, braced himself on the table, then dragged his twitching wreck of a body to its feet. Their gazes met, and Fenix raised his chin at the determination suddenly etched into his friend's face.

"That's more like it."

He then strode over to his own table, where the second labcoat was laying, just motionless as the first. Boston watched, too enamoured to ask how the ex-soldier had snatched his freedom back from the white-clad monsters. Bending, Fenix rooted through the fraying cotton pockets and procured something small and metal. The pistol gleamed in the cold light as Fenix raised it, briefly inspecting the chamber, before cocking it with an easy _chik-chak_. He held the gun like he'd been killing with it for years.

He turned to the door, his eyes suddenly narrowed into lethal slits, and put the barrel to the rusting lock.

"Full six rounds, Boz. Let's see how far we get."


	15. 14: The Truth About Knives

**14  
>[the truth about knives]<strong>

_And I can hear myself singing that song  
>over and over,<br>until it belongs to me._

Every sprinting step was painful, the hard concrete floor jolting Boston's spine as his boots beat down the hallways. In his head, the echoes of the last two gunshots repeated again and again. It had been over instantly; a whirl of action as the pair of guards appeared around the corner, their high-powered sidearms held aloft. Boston hadn't seen if Fenix's shots had found their mark, but he heard the dual erupting screams as he stumbled down another corridor.

He was in shock, he knew. Years of physical inaction in prison had left him brutally weak. His legs should have been on fire, his unfit lungs shrieking for him to stop, but adrenaline and fear staved off most of the pain. Even the inferno of agony in his eye socket seemed lessened when compared to the icy needles of panic that danced at the base of his skull. All he felt now was the physical scream of survival, growing louder as the cries of the guards pressed in from behind.

Fenix was just two steps ahead. In the desperate minutes since their escape, Boston became aware of the change that had come over the ex-soldier; he was like a whole different person. He moved with machine-like purpose now, ducking and skirting through the halls like a living shadow. With every dart of his cold eyes, every clench of his jaw, Boston could see the innate rapid-fire of calculation and decision-making. It was as if the half-loaded gun in his hand had become an organic extension of himself; a second heart that pumped fresh blood through his battered veins. For the first time since he'd been thrown into the Slab, Marcus Fenix looked alive as hell.

"Stay with me, Boz," the ex-Gear panted, though his chest didn't seem to be heaving quite as hard as his companion's. The prisoner's lungs seared, and he tasted rusted pennies. He didn't even have the strength to grunt in reply.

The rallying shouts of the guards were getting clearer, the halls darker, and every stretching footfall brought the reality of the situation to a head. They didn't have a plan. Aside from _don't get taken down_ and _run run run,_ they both knew there was no real goal to strive for. The Slab was vast, its many blocks sprawling out over a stagnant and lightless complex on the outskirts of Ephyra. Even if they somehow squirmed their way past the prison's wire-topped walls, the unarmed men would be quickly offed by the Locust that swarmed around the overrun city.

Escape—true freedom—was heart-breakingly impossible; the Slab was a labyrinth they were doomed to die in.

But that hadn't stopped them yet. Neither had the livid, faceless guards, four of which had been laid low by Fenix's pistol. That left only two bullets in the gun's spinning chamber. For a fleeting moment, Boston wanted to tell Fenix to save those last shots, in case they got cornered after all. But he knew the man would snarl at such an easy out; Gears died on their feet.

The single syllables repeated like staccato drum beats in time with his steps. _Gears died on their feet. Gears died on their feet_.

The painful, jaw-rattling pace had hardly faltered; Boston was beginning to feel the tendrils of fatigue creeping through his bone marrow, slowly filling his limbs with lead. But he was keeping up with Fenix, the ex-soldier's sweat gleaming in the light of the halogens as they raced by. They had chased themselves into a branch of the prison that Boston didn't recognize. He grimaced, trying desperately to recall the countless corridors he'd been marched through, just as a new sound attacked his ears.

It was shrill and unified, a call that rose above the chaotic clamour and snatched at Boston's thumping heart. It was familiar, only this time, he wasn't afforded the luxury of impassable iron bars to protect him. They were howls; dozens of them. Distantly, the call of Bethsheva's name rang out behind them.

_ The hounds. The fucking hounds._ They were coming. The fangs and the fur and the claws, all of it. The pack had been unleashed, and the blind bitch Bethsheva was at its head.

There was no longer any room for rationalization or thought. The entire universe shrunk instantly, so that it contained only that sound, the corridor it was bouncing through, and the primal terror that blocked everything else out. It didn't matter that there was nowhere to run; they just had to _run_.

They dug in twice as hard, the world around them reduced to a pointless blur of concrete and steel. Fenix swung wide around a corner, and into a dead end.

"Here!"

Boston blinked through the sweat; no, not a dead end. Not yet. There was a single, wide door at the hallway's end; all heavy steel and curling olive paint. It cost them their last two bullets to blast the lock apart; Fenix heaved the slab open, and they burst into a staggeringly dark, hot corridor.

The sudden, insulated quiet boomed in their abused ears. Boston had never been to this dank corner of the Slab, but there had always been rumours. Isolation chambers: the lightless, suffocating rooms reserved only for the most wretched, uncontainable inmates. As they dashed past the holding cells, their doors solid and watching, Boston wondered if their occupants could even hear the desperate chase outside their tiny tombs.

They ran deeper into the shadow, the muffled howl of the pack at their heels, and thoughts buzzed through Boston's head, broken and screaming.

This had to be a dead end.

The hounds were still coming. The guards with their guns were coming.

And Glasgow's damn pet...

His ears were ringing. _A dead end._...

Fenix snarled, breaking the miserable reverie. "There."

An instant later, he was skidding to a halt. Before Boston could gawk in confusion, the ex-soldier grabbed his shoulders and heaved him into a nearby unoccupied chamber.

"What the fuck!" Boston hissed as Fenix dove in beside him, taking up cover on the half-closed cell door. Unlike normal cages, isolation cells had solid walls, and it was impenetrably dark inside.

"_Quiet_," Fenix growled back, eyes narrow and back pressed straight against the steel wall. Boston obeyed, but as the barks and shouting drew ever closer, he felt an uncontrollable panic bubbling up. There was no way they would get away with this; they would be found. Even if the guards passed them by, surely their dogs would nose them out instantly.

Still, Fenix was glaring at him like he could silence him through sheer will alone, and Boston wrapped his hands over his mouth to stifle the rising groan of horror. The door they had shot open screeched, then the quiet gave way to an oncoming force of trampling boots and skittering paws. It sounded like a smaller contingent, but that made them no less dangerous. They rolled closer and closer; Boston closed his eyes and waited to be sniffed out.

An instant later, and they were gone, running past the isolation chambers before bolting off around another corner. The barking faded more and more, until the only sound was the howl of one of the distant search parties, and the prisoners' own ragged breath.

Seconds passed, then minutes, before Fenix finally gave what must have been the "OK" symbol for Gears. Slowly, he leaned out from the cover of the cell, then carefully stepped out into the airy blackness.

Boston swallowed. He was numb with relief, and unable to convince his body to follow his friend. "All c-clear...?"

For several moments, the only reply was the cotton rustle of Fenix's shirt as he scanned the hall.

"Yeah, clear." The ex-Gear's voice was barely audible in the ringing silence, but it was steady enough to inject some bravery into Boston's weakened bones. He slunk out of the abandoned cell, catching Fenix's eye.

"Let's keep going, then."

No more than four steps into their renewed escape, a single voice lashed out at them from the dark.

"_Get 'em, girl!_"

_No._ The call was too clear, too close, but they tried to outrun it anyways. Boston didn't stumble, in spite of his instantly frozen blood. He didn't look back; there was nothing more to do. Just like Fenix, he was slathered in blood from the labs; Bethsheva's bait of choice. He knew she could smell them like trembling rabbits from a mile away. She was hungry. It wouldn't be long now.

Worst of all, he was sure it wouldn't be a quick death.

Three breaths later, and he heard the scraping beat of claws on concrete, the triumphant howl as the blind animal honed in on her prey. A noise slipped from Boston's throat—an exhausted, anguished keen—and he let his knees crash to the floor, curling up among the isolation chambers and bracing for the flash of teeth around his neck.

He felt nothing. Terror washed over Boston like an electric white wave, his heartbeat thrashing in his ears so loudly that he barely heard the beast as she sprinted right past him. He snapped up from his shaking hands, confusion growing in the part of his brain that fear had hollowed out. Then he understood.

Bethsheva wasn't going for Boston; after months of licking Fenix's blood from a thin switchblade, the ex-soldier's wounds called more to her than anyone else's. Her target was him, and him alone.

"Run, Marcus!" Boston screamed hoarsely. "Fucking _RUN_."

God, did he try. The ex-soldier dug in and flattened out into the hardest sprint Boston had ever seen. But he only bought himself a couple seconds at most.

The scene played out like a film in slow motion, distant and surreal: the black streak of death that was Glasgow's hound rapidly closed the distance of empty hallway that lay between her and Fenix. With a dozen feet still separating them, she vaulted into the air; Fenix turned just in time to catch the bitch full in the chest. The force of the impact sent them both crashing forward in a ball of inky fur and limbs.

Bethsheva's snapping fangs tore in before the two even hit the concrete; Fenix's blistering cry of agony was drowned out by the demon dog's rabid, roaring snarls and, a moment later, Glasgow's hideous laughter.

The ex-soldier writhed helplessly under the monster. There was suddenly blood; a near-black pool polluting the cement floor like an oil spill. Boston fell to his knees, feeling faint. _So much blood.._. It was too much, and the growling and the screams were too much, and the laughter was too loud and...

An ear-splitting crack like a single gunshot shattered the scene, and it all _stopped_. The screaming, the snarling, the laughing, all of it.

Boston pulled his head from his hands. For a bleary, confused instant, he thought Glasgow had fired his gun, but then a strange sound filled the concussive silence: a sharp, high-pitched, whining. Suddenly, Bethsheva was stumbling frantically away from Fenix's curled body; in the dim light, Boston could see that they were both soaked in blood, but something was wrong with the dog. With a start, Boston realized she was shrieking with pain.

"Beth?"

Glasgow was much closer than Boston had thought. The warden stepped forward, slowly, then rushed to the madly lurching animal. She wobbled around to face her master; Boston gasped as he saw her face.

Her bloody mouth was hanging at a horrific angle from the rest of her head; somehow, amid the gory struggle, Marcus Fenix had broken the bitch's jaw clean off.

"Oh, _no_," Glasgow hissed, cradling his crying pet as she collapsed. "My poor, poor _darling_ Beth. No, no, no. What did that monster _do_ to you, sweet girl? Oh, my poor little baby, _no_..."

Boston knew he had to take advantage of the distraction. He shoved himself to unstable feet and made a run for Fenix's still motionless body, but the thud of boots on cement flew up behind him, and he was yanked back by a pair of vicious arms.

"Warden!" cried the guard in Boston's ear, though he seemed reluctant approach his hunched-over boss. Glasgow made no reply, but the guard must have caught sight of Fenix, because he flinched. "Ah, _shit_. What the hell is going on, sir? Sir!"

Glasgow pulled his pistol from its holster. Bethsheva was still whimpering loudly, pathetically, and the warden cocked the weapon. Not a single word was uttered as Glasgow put the gun carefully between his beloved hound's sightless white eyes, then pulled the trigger.

The reverberating gunshot mimicked the earlier cracking of Bethsheva's jaw perfectly; the agonized keening was instantly silenced, and in the bullet's hushing wake, Boston realized he could now hear a different sound.

Fenix was groaning quietly. And still alive. Boston didn't know if he wanted to cry or pass out. Even the guard at his back breathed a little curse of repulsed awe. The warden, however, was less impressed.

"You killed my baby."

Glasgow's voice was soft, gentle even. He stepped unceremoniously over the lifeless mound of Bethsheva's body, towards his prisoner. The ex-soldier was trying weakly to get onto his hands and knees, but he slipped in the puddle of his own blood. The whole scene was all too similar to the night Iven Manells had been slaughtered; Boston struggled impotently against the guard's bruising hold.

"Did you hear me, Gear?"

It was terrifying as it was surreal. Glasgow's voice had lost its maniacal twinge; it was as if Bethsheva's sudden death had stripped away all those caked-on layers of madness, leaving him clear and sharp as the knife on his belt. Boston heard the approaching footsteps as more guards arrived, but even they seemed paralyzed by the sight of their crazed warden.

"I said: _you killed my baby._"

With that, Fenix stopped his ineffectual scrabbling and turned slowly.

"Yeah." His rasping growl was barely audible. "And I'd do it again, you fucking son of abitch."

The ex-soldier raised his head into the light then, and Boston's stomach gave a sickening lurch. Fenix's hand was the only thing keeping the right side of his mangled face, now just a shred of torn flesh, from hanging limply from the bone. His broad torso and arms were horribly lacerated from Bethsheva's raking claws, but from the chest up, he was slippery with blood. His eyes, twin points of glacial blue, glared out from an unrecognizable sea of dark, dripping red.

His hand was shaking, his whole body seemed on the verge of collapse, but he reared his head even higher into the empty air, chin lifted to bare his throat.

"Kill me, you fucking coward," he mumbled through the blood. "I can't do anything to you now. Do it. _Off_ me."

"Oh, I want to," Glasgow tremoured, brows shooting towards his greasy hairline. "I want to slit your throat, cut out those precious blue eyes, and send them to that whore of yours in a _box_. But...that's just not what I set out to do."

Fenix gave a bloody cough, his body racked by the violent action. "Then what_ did_ you set out to do?"

"I set out to break you."

The statement laid itself out in the cold, unmoving air, stretched grotesquely by its own nonsensical nature. Boston felt the ripple of wordless disgust that moved through the lingering guards. No one moved an inch; except for Glasgow, who began to pace.

"That said, you've proven to be a hard one to crack. I tried everything. But you're just like a fat little cockroach; you keep coming back." The warden seemed to pique at the amusing insult. "Speaking of cockroaches..."

He swung a damning look on Boston, exposing him like a helicopter's spotlight, one strand of unkempt hair hanging over his nose.

"Oh Boston. Boston, Boston, Boston." He gave a withering smile that grew wider with every slinking step. "Where do you fit in all this mess, hm?"

The monster was quieter now, his eyes glassy and teeth flashing, but Boston's spine still prickled at his approach. The danger was palpable, but somehow, the fear was ebbing. There was no more fighting now, no more running; whatever happened next, it would be inevitable. Distantly, Boston wondered if this was what Gears on the battlefield felt...

"He's gonna bleed out," the words tumbled numbly over his blood-flaked lips; they were useless, he knew, but somehow too important to smother. The warden pretended not to notice. Instead, he laughed, barking like his mangled hound, and swept his arm back towards Fenix: the gesture of a matador presenting his slaughtered bull to the cheering crowd.

"Just look at him, hm? So much trouble for one little army puke. Knowing you, Boz, you'd probably say this Gear is the worst thing to happen to you. _Well_, since that nasty little homicide charge that landed you here in the first place, anyhow."

The guard's arms were still around Boston's shoulders, locked in an airtight chokehold, but Glasgow gave a little nod to signal for the prisoner's release.

"Sir..." In spite of Boston's weakness, the guard sounded breathless; the first time Boston had ever seen one of the warden's orders not instantly obeyed. Glasgow didn't reiterate, however, and the fleeting hesitation evaporated as the guard threaded his arms out from around his captive's chest. The notion of running didn't even occur to Boston; he only watched, head throbbing with the returning press of chem shock pain, as the warden ambled closer.

"Fenix...he n-needs a doct—"

Instantly, Boston realized that the guard's hold had been a blessing in disguise: Glasgow shot out and snatched his victim up by the collar. His nails twisted the skin of the inmate's neck, earning him a sharp groan. This close, the hallmarks of insanity were all too clear: Boston saw the gleaming eyes, their white rims tinged pink from insomnia, and felt the tremble of muscles in the hands that wrung him. When Glasgow spoke, the words were clear and deliberate, but there was no mistaking the faint quaver of true madness in them.

"I knew you were the key to breaking the Gear. All this time, I couldn't figure out why it wasn't working. But now I see it, Boston. I see it _so clearly_. You were the key, but I just wasn't going about it the right way. Now I understand."

Smiling, Glasgow took the knife from his belt, wrenched Boston's chin toward the ceiling, and slit his throat.

"NO!"

Fenix's inhuman bellow boomed in the tight, metal-bound space, though it felt suddenly very far away. In fact, everything seemed incomprehensibly distant when compared to the ooze of wet warmth Boston felt spreading quickly down his shirt. All he could see was Glasgow's endlessly grinning scars. The warden's grip floated away, and Boston crumpled to his knees.

"Boston, no! Damn it! _Damn it!_"

"Take Fenix back to the labs and stitch him up." Glasgow's quiet orders floated around Boston's head as he stepped away. "Don't waste our last sedatives on him. No painkillers, either. After, I want him here, in an isolation chamber."

The guards hardly breathed. "How long, sir?"

"The remainder of his sentence. Thirty-eight years."

Boston was sinking, melting down to merge with the dirt and the cold grated floor. He watched Fenix. The guards were wrestling with him, pulling his broken body away, but through all the gore of his face, those excruciatingly blue eyes stayed locked on Boston's. The horror and agony and grief in their frozen depths all made it very clear: with the simple slice of a knife, the untouchable Marcus Fenix had finally been brought to his knees.

"And...the other one, sir?"

His collapsing form was horizontal now, his shoulders and hips pressing uncomfortably into the unsympathetic concrete. Words were getting hazy and hard to make out; the detached voices of guards and wardens around him fuzzed like bits of cotton in his ears.

"Leave him. The wretch has another minute. If that."

They were talking about him, Boston realized. A minute? That was it? He must have had more time than only _that_. Sure, he was aware of a strange, urgent throbbing just above his heavy collarbones, but there was no pain. He couldn't even feel his achingly empty eye socket anymore. For the first time in years, nothing hurt.

Fenix was still yelling, but his choked cries were far away now, echoing into the gloom as the men dragged him away. Eyelids flickering, Boston tried to remember how bad the ex-soldier's injuries had looked. Maybe he would survive after all; Boston hoped he would. Either way, he reluctantly accepted that he would never see the Gear again.

A pair of steel-toe boots paced aimlessly around Boston, the clang of each footstep reverberating with an almost underwater weight. The other guards must have left, because Glasgow was murmuring to himself. Boston's pulsing ears picked up the fumbling whisper of paper.

"No more Miss Stroud, Fenix." The warden sang to the lonely dark. "No more human contact. No more nothing. You'll rot in isolation. I'll make sure of it."

It was snowing letters, ripped and shredded into pieces. They'd all been taken out of their envelopes already, pre-read by someone other than the man they were intended for. All around Boston, ivory flakes of paper fluttered out of the air to alight in the spreading lake of blood. One tattered piece landed gracefully right before his drooping eyes, and he got a glimpse at the first couple of scrawled lines.

_ Marcus. The strangest thing happened yesterday. It was such a normal day, really. I was at the CIC as always, working through a stack of post-combat papers I'd been_

The scrawled words were suddenly running together, too blurry to read...too stained with red...Strange. He tried to draw breath, but only sputtered more blood.

_I'm dying._

Slowly, he curled and gave in to the ringing silence; his minute must be draining out. For whatever reason, he had never read a full letter from Anya. He wanted to now. But slowly encompassing that desire was a different, much simpler urge. He wanted to sleep. His hand gave a weak twitch, white fingers grazing the paper's crisp edge.

_I bet you're beautiful, Anya. I bet you're so fucking beautiful._

Velvet black pushed steadily in on the corners of his vision. He was vaguely aware of being cold, but this new smile just felt too good on his chapped lips, and he let the tension seep from his muscles.

This new darkness was comforting; for once, Boston couldn't complain.

* * *

><p><em><strong>end.<strong>_


	16. 15: Epilogue

**[epilogue]**

Marcus.

The strangest thing happened yesterday.

It was such a normal day, really. I was at the CIC as always, working through a stack of post-combat papers I'd been putting off. At some point, I guess I turned to grab my coffee or something, and as I swung my chair back around, I caught a glimpse of a calender on the wall. And I just stared at it. For actual minutes, Marcus, I just looked at this thing. The date wasn't notable, but it screamed at me. I went through every anniversary, birthday, and deathday I knew I should remember, but nothing matched up. It wasn't until I was going to bed, hours later, that I saw it: your bandana—the one I begged you to let me keep, remember?—knotted around my bedpost. Please try not to cringe at that; that's just where I keep it. But seeing it last night made it all click into place.

Yesterday marked two years, to the day, since they took you away from us. From me.

I know what the statistics say. Everyone tries to avoid it, to step around it for my sake, but I've heard them all. They put the average lifespan of a Slab detainee at just over a year. Chances are, Marcus, that even as I write this, you're...already dead. And last night, I _forced_ myself to think about just that. As I stared at that old, worn-out scrap of cloth, my mind raced through those stats, and I prepared for...I don't know, a tidal wave of grief. Heartbreak, even. I can't tell you what I was waiting for. Something that would hurt.

It never came. No tears, no flipping stomach, not even a damned heart flutter. I didn't feel a thing, Marcus. For a few moments, I thought the war might have finally turned me into some kind of kryllshit sociopath, but then I started to understand. Somehow, everything just felt _okay_. And the more I thought about you, the more sure I was.

Marcus...I can't explain it, but I know you're still alive. Maybe that makes me crazy after all. I don't know. But you're strong; if anyone can survive that place, it's you. Usually, writing these letters to you make me nervous as hell—I hope they offer you some small comfort, at least—but I'm more calm now than I've ever been. This sounds so insane, even to me, but if you were gone, I'd...I don't know..._feel_ it. Somehow, something would change, and I'd just know. It's the same wierd feeling I always had in old times, with you out in some insanely dangerous battle, and me in my dark little CIC room. I never panicked for you. Even in the beginning, at fucking _Aspho_...even then, I knew without a doubt that you were coming back.

The point is, it's been over two years, and...I'm still okay. And that gives me more hope than anything Dom or the others could say.

So fuck the statistics, Marcus. I haven't cried for you yet; I didn't start yesterday, and I won't start now. You're alive, and I swear, that's all I need. I'm not going to grieve, I'm not going to let go. I can be strong too, Marcus. For you.

_ With all my heart,  
>Anya <em>


End file.
